Behind the Mask
by GrimGravy
Summary: Team Rainbow. The world's first line of defense against international terrorism. But behind the mask worn by its operatives, there lies ordinary men and women, and their stories. (All previous chapters have been re-uploaded here). The last chapter, Rainbow Six, is up!
1. Chapter 1 - Valkyrie

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* * *

 **Meghan "Valkyrie" Castellano**

* * *

The darkened room illuminated with a flick of a switch. It revealed rows upon rows of cabinets and lockers, festooned with all sorts of firearms and other hardware. There was no time to waste.

"Alright, boys and girls. Lock and load." A burly voice spoke.

The sun hasn't risen yet at the base, but somewhere in the world it is already a bright morning, with trouble afoot. The handful of men and women in the room knew that they're needed there, and so they hurried to stock up on their gear.

"Max out ammo and flashbangs." The man spoke again. "Wheels up in five."

They were fast asleep, waiting out their next shift, when the call came almost an hour ago. They weren't briefed about the situation, yet already they were being asked to respond posthaste. The team still had weary eyes and their bodies egged them back to their bunks. Yet none of them complained. Everyone knew the score: people would die if they didn't act now.

That's what Meghan liked about this new outfit: different faces, different tongues, but one motivation.

"Hey Craig, any word on civilian casualties?" she asked her bearded friend.

"Nothing." He replied. "We'll be briefed en route. Assume the worst."

As the surveillance expert, Meghan knew that it would be her job to tap into the security feeds and establish contact with the Consulate staff, if they're still there. If not, at the very least she should coordinate with the first responders on site. Since her French was a bit rusty, Meghan hoped Emma could help her out with the talking. Gilles would be on point, Jordan on breaching duty, and Emma was to handle rear security. Meghan and Craig were to standby as the second assault team, in case things went south.

Entry and assault maneuvers played over and over in Meghan's head as she loaded fresh magazines for her MPX. She hasn't yet seen the Consulate's blueprints, but she could assume a typical scenario of close quarters, tight corridors, and large doors, as it was standard for civic buildings. Her eyes scanned for the pack of Black-Eye cameras she requisitioned yesterday; she'll need them to set-up OPSEC.

Suddenly, her cellphone rang. She pulled it out; to her surprise, it was an international call.

"Hello?"

"Meg? Are you there?" an older man replied.

For a moment, she was speechless. Then, Meghan grabbed her weapon and went outside the room, not minding the glances from her teammates as she walked past them. She hurriedly closed the door and found a nearby corner. Leaning back on the wall, she brought the cellphone to her ear.

"Yeah it's me…" Meghan spoke in a hushed tone. "Anything wrong?"

"No. Just watching the news..."

She took a deep breath. It has not been that long since she heard from him, but his voice sounded worried.

"Really? What's going on?" she asked.

"It's a stand-off in Abidjan. Police are all over the place. It's been going on for an hour now."

Meghan was hardly surprised when she heard that; the man was always an early bird. She could only imagine the scene being described by the press. Considering there was nary a peep about the current situation from Six, she felt that the man on the other end of the phone knew more about what's going on better than her. The perps behind this attack may have also been the same guys who shot up Moscow and Hamburg a few months ago.

But then her mind drifted to elsewhere: a small two-floor house in the suburbs, a fresh lawn, a musky living room, and antique furniture. The TV was hung beside the fireplace, if she could remember. That's probably where he's watching the news. Meghan sighed in her mind; she hasn't returned there for more than a year.

"Yeah. I'm also at the TV right now."

"I thought about calling you," the man continued. "…I know your ship is stationed near there…"

Meghan didn't say anything.

"…Is this a bad time? I can just-"

"No, no…" she cut in, "I… just got out of bed."

Tension built up as Meghan stroked her blonde hair. A part of her wanted to panic. She hasn't told him yet about her 'new posting'. She knows that he'll go ballistic if she does.

Hell, he almost lost his mind when she showed him her tats almost a year ago, how would he react once he learned she already left the Navy? She can still remember that time when she rotated back from the Pacific. He was always proud that Meghan kept pushing the envelope since BUD/S, but he didn't realize that she would piss on the grooming standards along the way, even if she's a SEAL.

"Really? You on Reveille duty?"

Meghan chuckled. "God I hope not!"

The newfound freedom to do whatever she liked was another reason, albeit a petty one in hindsight, why Meghan joined Rainbow. The stakes were higher, true, but now there's very little holding her back. She can focus on getting the job done without worrying about a backseat driver from the White House.

It has been two months since her transfer, since she and Craig 'passed the audition' in the Middle East. And yet, she still hasn't thought of breaking the news to the man on the phone. She hoped that her friends at ONI could keep him in the dark for a while longer, but he did have some friends in high places. If he called in the right favors, he would know the truth. Still, she prayed that he wouldn't; there were plenty of reasons why Six wanted the taskforce to remain a secret.

"Listen. I'll just keep this short." The man spoke again, "I know you'll be busy."

Those words were puzzling to Meghan.

"No, no… we're uh..."

At the corner of her eye, she saw Craig standing beside her all kitted-up. He held his helmet in one hand and her shemagh in another. A rifle was slung on his back. He motioned for her to take her headwear, but she held up a hand; she needed to take this call.

"…We're fine. I haven't heard anything from the Commander, so I guess we'll stand down on this one."

Not a moment too soon, the rest of Meghan's team emerged from the door one by one, fully-armed and with their game faces on. Jordan and Gilles didn't say anything, but Emma gave her a concerned look as she went past her. It was a brief gesture, but it spoke a dozen words; it was almost time to head out. Meghan nodded and urged her to go on. Craig didn't leave her side as he crossed his arms, waiting patiently.

The man on the other end of the phone took a deep breath.

"Don't bullshit an NCO, Meg… I know it's only a matter of time before the brass brings you in…"

Meghan thought that he was talking about her SEAL platoon. That would be the most plausible reason. She kept her cool. Then she lost it when he spoke again.

"…I just want to say good luck…"

She closed her eyes. She heard those words before, typical well-wishing from one soldier to another, but they had a different weight this time. Craig understood how she felt and turned around, giving her space as he followed his teammates to the hanger.

…

When Craig was finally out of earshot, Meghan spoke softly.

"…Dad. What brought this on?"

The older man chuckled a bit.

"You don't have to tell me anything. This secret of yours… it's way above my pay grade, right?"

Meghan remained silent. How could he have known? Did he ask ONI? There's no way this was a father's intuition.

"…I don't know where you are right now, Meg. But I think I know enough."

She laughed. "Jesus Christ, Dad... You do realize they can cut your pension for that?"

"Heh heh. They can try." The man laughed back.

That glee of his was a soft reminder why Meghan aspired to be like him: tough as nails, but with a heart he wasn't ashamed of. When her dreams for Olympic gold in Sydney were crushed like her arm, it was her father who told her not to give up. So what if she could never compete again? It was more important for her to get back up on her feet, one way or another. And that she did, thanks to his firm voice, strong will, and compassion. It was refreshing to remember all of it again.

Now, she's a woman who has proven herself worthy of being inducted among the toughest men on the planet. Now, she's a member of an elite cadre of like-minded soldiers sworn to protect the innocent. She wondered about her father's reaction if he saw her now, all jacked-up serving in a different, nationless outfit. But she needn't worry.

"Just… just be careful sweetheart…okay?"

She smiled, thinking about teasing him.

"Get your eyes checked, old man. I'm hardly a 'sweetheart' anymore."

Her father laughed again. The levity between them almost felt like she was back home. Next time, for sure, she'll be taking that cab to Oceanside.

"Stay safe. I love you Meg."

She smiled in silence. It took a great deal of effort from her not to sob. Good thing, then, that nobody was around to see her like this, someone other than 'Valkyrie'.

"I know Dad. Likewise…"

* * *

...

Daybreak was coming. The wind chopped as the Blackhawk's blades started to spin. Gilles, Jordan, and Emma boarded the aircraft with their gear in tow, firearms locked and loaded. They left the door ajar; Craig was still outside. His left hand gripped Meghan's shemagh, while the other cradled his Mk17. His eyes stared at the closed door leading to the hallway.

Soon enough, it opened with a noticeable clang. His blonde partner emerged and her face was pensive. It must have been the call she took.

"You okay Meg?" Craig asked.

She quickly looked up; she was deep in thought when he called to her.

"Yeah. Yeah… I'm fine."

Craig grinned. It was so out of character of her to be contemplative. But he understood. He then handed Meghan her shemagh as he gave her a reassuring pat to the shoulder.

"Don't worry. I'll make sure you come back in one piece."

Strangely enough, she seemed much less drowsy than the rest of the team.

"Ugh. You're not my boyfriend you know..." she scoffed, jokingly, as she boarded the helicopter.

Once inside, she wrapped the shemagh over her head. She didn't realize that she was grinning like an idiot as Emma frowned her eyes, looking at her. Meghan didn't care, though; it felt good to have much less weight on her chest. Once Craig boarded and closed the door, the Blackhawk began its ascent.

The bearded man offered his fist.

"Ready roll, Valkyrie?"

She smiled and accepted it. Her head was back in the game.

"Hell yeah!"

It was time to work.

* * *

 **Author's Comments/Notes:** Valkyrie wasn't actually the first character I planned for my 'Behind the Mask' series. But I've been having so much fun with her recently that I decided to give her a go. The father-daughter dynamic is just a thing I came up with after reading her bio. Well, that's it for my first Siege fic. Hope you liked it!


	2. Chapter 2 - Glaz

**Update (11/26/2016):** Now that Twitch's face has been revealed, I took it upon myself to change her physical description here. Apparently, she has short black hair, not an auburn pixie cut. This change will be reflected in all succeeding chapters, wherever appropriate.

 **Update (06/02/2017):** I somehow forgot that Ubi already revealed Twitch's face through her Elite Uniform. She's a brunette, apparently. Well, time to change the description again!

* * *

 **Timur "Glaz" Glazkov**

* * *

Timur was never the adventurous type. True, for years he enjoyed making landscapes of lush greens, wide rivers, and large mountains, but he didn't like the idea of actually setting out on his own to go to those places for inspiration. This is why a part of him always looks forward to the next deployment, like a giddy schoolboy eager to go on the next field trip. Another country means another locale, another opportunity, and hopefully another picturesque portrait to add to his portfolio.

So far, Hereford has been good to him since he and his mates arrived a couple of weeks ago. Timur, or "Tim" as the others called him, picked a nice hill with a large, verdant oak tree as a spot for his next painting. From here, the fresh pastures, tall trees, and green hedgerows of the land, all set in a backdrop of a clear, sunny blue sky, have been occupying his spare time for the past few days. And it's not everyday that the Spetsnaz sniper gets to sit, lean back, and enjoy the view for a few short hours, letting his hands work with the brush to create a harmony of colors in the canvas on his lap.

The change of scenery helped a lot to reinvigorate his artistic side. The fertile West Midlands provided a good, stark contrast to Siberia's frozen forests and the bustling seaside views of Vladivostok. Georgia would have made the cut as well, if only he did something other than shoot people during the one time he was there. Five more minutes, give or take, and he'll be done with his latest panorama: a showcase of the bright green English countryside surrounding RAF Credenhill and a culmination of five days' work on a 5-by-7 block.

But as much as he wants to spend time thinking about his next piece, reality sets in: this morning is a firearms proficiency exercise that Tim and the other Rainbow operatives will have to participate. After the attack on the French Consulate in Abidjan three days ago, Six has ordered everyone to maintain operational readiness. That means undergoing regular skill tests at the behest of Rainbow's partners to keep their skills razor-sharp.

Still, Tim was not looking forward to it. It's not that he has anything to prove; on the contrary, he felt uncharacteristically overoptimistic in acing the exercise. But unlike yesterday, he had to return to his favorite spot wearing his green combat fatigues, tactical gear, and his Dragunov SVU slung over his shoulder; a nagging reminder of his real profession. They were not exactly the kinds of things an artist needed for work, nor should they be what he brought to his 'workplace' together with his instruments.

" _Ey,_ Timur…"

The brown-haired man turned to his companion. Shuhrat was zeroing the sights of the AK-12 he had just finished reassembling. Like Tim, the Alfa Group demolitions expert wore his kit and battle dress this morning as he accompanied his fellow Alfa to the hill. Both were looking for a quiet spot to prepare their minds for the coming exercise. Unsurprisingly, Shuhrat's idea of 'relaxation' is to tinker with hardware, while deriding those who do not share with his affinity.

"… _Vy sdelali? Eto pochti vremya._ " ("…Are you done with that? It's almost time.")

Tim gave a soft, exasperated sigh.

"… _Vy ne dolzhny speshit' shedevr, moy droog…_ " ("…You shouldn't rush a masterpiece, my friend…")

" _Tch_ …" The other man scoffed, "… _Yest' luchshiye veshchi, chtoby sdelat' s vashim vremenem._ " ("…There are better things to do with your time.")

They still had 20 minutes to spare, actually: just enough time for Tim to put the finishing touches on his painting and get back to the firing range. Shuhrat's dismissive attitude was just typical vitriol from the grumpy Uzbek, jabbing at his 'soft side' again. This isn't anything new; Shuhrat has always been a hardass even before he joined Rainbow together with Max and Sasha. 'Academic debates' were a staple in their barracks at Khabarovsk, much to the consternation of their peers and superiors.

Before he could think of a comeback, however, Tim noticed a figure clad in black approaching the hill. His vision, unimpaired by the scar on his left eye, was sharp enough to distinguish the person's features from afar. It was a woman in tactical gear and her pixie brown hair shone under the sun. Before Shuhrat could look to her direction, his comrade already recognized her face. For once she wasn't wearing her mask. Tim didn't call her name though, and instead returned his attention to the canvas on his lap, blowing on it a bit to help dry the paint.

"You gentlemen skipping class?" the woman spoke with a smile on her face.

Emmanuelle Pichon. "Twitch". The 'darling' of the French GIGN, she is Rainbow's go-to person for anything robotic, which is shorthand for saying she's in charge of optimizing and maintaining the team's drones and sensor systems. She is also a machinist at heart, something that allowed her to bond with the taciturn Shuhrat on a number of occasions. A few days ago, she took part in Rainbow's retaking of the French Consulate in the Ivory Coast, dodging bullets, fighting bad guys, and rescuing the Consulate staff together with Gilles and some of the Yanks in the team. The action was tough, from what Tim heard from the others, but she seemed fine now.

He didn't say anything to her, if only because he knew that Shuhrat would be the first to greet her anyway.

"Hey, _krasavitsa_ (pretty lady)." the masked man called her in a thick accent. "Care to join us?"

"Maybe." She replied. "I believe you two are sharing... a 'private' moment, _oui_?"

It was quite obvious she was there to call them to the range; Baker's orders, perhaps. Emma then made her way to Tim's side, leaning a bit to get a good look on his latest work. Always the brilliant and curious scholar, Emma was genuinely interested about his drawings and paintings.

"That looks good, _monsieur_ Glazkov", she spoke. "You already got a name for that?"

He shrugged his shoulders in response. He hadn't yet thought about the title for his new landscape, even now that he was almost done with it. It's not that he's going to donate his work to a museum or anything. He had other plans for his work. Disappointed, Emma placed her hands on her waist.

"You know, you should really think about opening your own art gallery…"

"His pretty pictures are not for sale." Shuhrat laughed.

Tim couldn't help but to chuckle as well; on the contrary, he actually thought about selling his work before he joined Rainbow. But that would mean removing all traces of his growth as an artist. Every smudge, every stain, every mistake he made on the easel over the years are a reminder of what made him better and he's not to about to give them all away for a few Rubles. Besides, he's nothing if not a sentimentalist.

"But seriously…" Emma spoke again. "…Why not be a professional? You seem to have what it takes to make a name in Paris."

He looked at her for a bit before dipping his brush on another color in the palette. She wasn't the first person to ask him that question before. Admittedly, it irked him a bit that people still couldn't reconcile the idea that a special forces sharpshooter like him could also have artistic tastes. But then again, he himself never thought about joining the military when he was younger. The two lives are irrevocably far from each other with good reason.

He sighed while making the finishing touches to his piece.

"…It's because... I made a promise to Nadezhda."

Almost immediately, Emma gave an obviously impish smile on her face. Tim knew where her mind was going, but he was having none of it.

"Oookay… Who's Nadezhda?" She asked, playfully. "Is there a _m_ _adame_ Glazkova I don't know about?"

The artist kept his cool, though he could picture Shuhrat already putting a palm on his head. If only he wasn't so blasé.

"She's an artist like me..." Tim explained. "…Though she's more of a sketch artist than a painter."

"Oh? Okay, this I got to hear…"

"You know what?" Shuhrat stood up. "I'll head to the range now… I'll save you a spot, Timur."

The man then picked up his rifle and made his way down the hill. He already heard this story before. Tim called to him as he left.

" _Vyberite khoroshiy, a_?" ("Pick the good one, eh?")

As Shuhrat steadily went out of view, Emma then turned to Tim, her eyes gleaming with anticipation of his story.

"You were saying?"

He took the canvas from his lap and set it aside. Clasping his hands, he began to think about what words to use to make his narration short.

"She's ...an amateur, actually." Tim spoke. "I mean, her works aren't anything to boast about ...but she had big dreams. Like her drawings being showcased in Tretyakov and Osnova one day…"

"So… you promised to teach her?" Emma retorted.

Tim paused for a moment; his face became somber. He then brought his sniper rifle to his lap. It was about time for him to inspect his weapon before the exercise.

"Actually… she might never draw again." he replied

"Huh? What happened?"

Sighing to himself, Tim turned to Emma with a serious look on his eyes. The woman took the hint, and her cheery expression similarly became more subdued.

"Beslan. 2004. Nadezhda was one of the children taken hostage… and uh…"

When she heard those words, Emma felt her heart get crushed. She knew full well what he was talking about. She herself was 16 when she watched the news on that fateful September morning. Tim, meanwhile, had more vivid memories of the tragedy. He was still at art school, wrapped up in looking for a good subject for his still life portrait when his friends broke the news to him. Information was scarce during the first few days, but he nonetheless followed the story in the weeks that came after. And a part of him died when he learned what happened to the children. Next thing he knew, he was making plans to drop out of college and board a train bound for Saint Petersburg to enlist.

But none of their accounts compared to what Max experienced, who was _actually there_ when the crisis unfolded. His stories of the violence, death, and indescribable carnage that occurred at the school were the stuff of nightmares; cautionary tales of humanity's savage nature that he shared to Alfa Group's recruits. Max was lucky enough to survive, but the horrors he witnessed irreversibly made him one of the most coldhearted cynics of Alfa, and of Rainbow now that he's joined their ranks.

"…Actually…" Tim continued, "…Nadezhda survived, but a stray bullet damaged her spinal column. Though the doctors saved her, much of her body was paralyzed…"

" _Mon Dieu_ (My God)…" Emma whispered.

Tim pulled his rifle's cocking handle to see if its action was clear. It was a poetic moment; the French woman now realized why the aspiring painter sitting beside her also pursued a soldier's life. In truth, the artist hated telling this story. Every time he remembers the poor girl's sorry state, a slow rage boils inside of him.

"I had a chance to meet her last year, at a rehab center in Moscow." He continued.

"Truly? How was she?"

"She's doing good actually." Tim replied, "A brave girl, that one. Her therapies are painful, but she keeps going; now she can move her fingers and wrists."

His voice was filled with awe as he described her. He couldn't help but be amazed by her determination. Last time he visited Nadezhda, the walls of her room were plastered with all sorts of sketches and portraits she made with her stiff hands over the years. Many of the older ones displayed irregular shapes and scribbles. However, the newer sketches progressed into noticeable patterns and figures, a testament to her slow but steady recovery over time. Strenuous work, but she was eager to continue.

"She said she needed something to practice drawing with…"

Tim slung the SVU over his shoulder. It was time for him to get to the firing range, where Shuhrat was headed.

"…So I promised to send her some of my paintings."

He figured a landscape painting of the English countryside would be a suitable birthday gift. She'll be turning 20 this December.

"Wow!" Emma smiled. "So that's for her?"

He nodded in response, even though the man didn't want to think much about it. His latest work of art was nothing more than a humble gesture of goodwill, from one artist to another. He believed that the girl still has a chance to reach her dreams. And he felt it was his job to lend a hand, in whatever way he can, whether by inspiring her to pursue her craft with his own works or by drilling holes between the eyes of would-be bad guys to make the world a little safer for her.

"It's a good thing you're looking out for her, Glaz."

He smirked a bit. He wanted to tell Emma that she was selling herself short. She already did her part when she boarded that helicopter to rescue the Consulate staff. Her eagerness to save the lives of other children, to keep them from the same fate as Nadezhda, is already a service to the crippled young artist.

"We all are." Tim commented.

After saying this, he stood up ready to face the morning's endeavor. He'll have time to seal his painting once he's done with the exercise.

"So, shall we?" he asked.

Emma stood up as well.

"You go on ahead. I have to look for Mark."

"Ah…" Tim snickered under his breath. "So he 'skipped class' too?"

That wasn't a surprise. The lad was so pretentious that even the likes of Shuhrat couldn't stand him. Perhaps he thought that an 'easy' firearms exercise was simply not worth his time. Tim could imagine their SIGINT expert droning away in the base's workshop, tinkering with his Monis again. He didn't have to say that to Emma, though; most of the team already knew where to look for Mark if he was nowhere to be found.

...

As he bid his French comrade farewell, Tim gathered his instruments in one hand and made his way down the hill. He gripped the canvas with his other hand, conscious about smudging the paint on his painting. But as soon as he was out of Emma's view, his radio buzzed.

"Glazkov, is she still looking for me?"

" _Da_." he replied, "For your sake, Chandar, you better get down there now. I won't cover for you a second time."

* * *

 **Author's Comments/Notes:** As you can see, I tried using Russian and French to make the piece more immersive in a way. I do not claim to be an expert in these languages at all, but I tried my best with the resources I have. Still, some pointers on their proper usage are welcome, if you think I need them. Also, I took some liberties with the way I portrayed some of the characters, like Glaz's nickname 'Tim' and Twitch's reddish pixie hair. Referring to the operators by their real first name is also going to be a trend you'll see in my _Siege_ fics; I wanted to show Rainbow as a close-knit group.


	3. Chapter 3 - Mute

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* * *

 **Mark "Mute" Chandar**

* * *

"Here you go..."

Mark handed Emma her shock drone, good as new. It's almost as if it was different from the busted contraption she brought to him a few days ago. Tedious work, but a favor is a favor.

"…Do try to get this one shot up again."

The young man's words were dripping with sarcasm.

"Alright, alright…" she replied.

Rainbow's last mission in the Ivory Coast ended with Emma's prized RSD-1 out of commission. The drone's camera unit had several holes from a 5.56 round and its actuators were damaged beyond repair. It was a 'tremendous loss' for the self-taught roboticist who was adamant on fixing it herself. However, Mark offered her a hand, since he needed to extract the video chip from the device anyway. Fortunately for her, the former SAS engineer had tinkered with French Army hardware before. It only took him a couple of days to get the broken wheeled robot back to mint condition. RAF Credenhill's abundant supply of tech materials also helped.

"It lasted two seconds in a firefight. French engineering at its finest, yeah?" Mark spoke, ridiculing the device's flimsiness.

"Hey, watch your tongue." Emma scoffed back. "Last I checked, your Monis aren't bulletproof as well…"

He grinned in his mind; his mates in The Doughnut are actually working on something like that right now. A hardened GC90 with Kevlar underlays for use by the SFSG in the field. Mark wanted to boast how he can prove her wrong, but he'd rather not butt heads with the other, more pompous nerds of the GCHQ. Again.

"Did you get the feed off this one?" Emma asked as she inspected her drone.

Mark nodded in silence. He skimmed through it last night after he extracted the chip. Not an easy task, given the state of the drone.

Emma then clasped her hands, smiling.

"Then I suppose we should go now!"

"Beg pardon?" he asked her.

"To the firing range? Baker asked me to look for you here and-"

"Not interested Pichon. You go on ahead."

The redheaded woman paused, her cheery expression faded. This wasn't the first time that Mark refused to join the team on a weapons exercise. But this time he had nobody to pick up the slack for him. And he still said 'no'.

"Mark. This is Baker we're talking about. _Baker_. You really want to push your luck?"

"He'd understand."

After a few seconds of silence, Emma went out of the door in defeat. She knew better than anyone not to argue with a stubborn intellectual. And with that, Mark found himself alone in the dimly lit workshop, with nothing but tools, computers, and his unloaded MP5 on the table to keep him company. But the solitude was welcoming. In fact, he's relieved that he could finally continue with his work. The exercise he just skipped was a bad way to start the day, and then Emma had to come along… he wished under his breath for a brief moment of peace.

Making his way back to the computer equipment he set up at the workshop, Mark picked up from where he left off last night. Again, he sifted through the footages of the Consulate mission three days ago from Meghan's Black Eye cameras and Emma's drone feeds. The assault teams recorded brief, but informative clips detailing their enemy's movements and behavior. By crosschecking the videos' timestamps with the phone signals Mark intercepted during the mission, he's quite certain that his initial findings are all but confirmed: that the masterminds behind the attack were offshore. It's likely that they had used the same command structure when they hit Moscow and Hamburg a few months ago.

Unlike the rest of the team, Mark was actually interested in knowing more about their new enemy, almost pathologically so. This urge was a leftover from his days as a GCHQ signals intelligence expert. It was good that Six allowed him to do as he pleased; a dozen cases working with lackluster intel have taught him the value of gathering information beforehand. And there's definitely a lot to be informed about these hooded, masked murderers. Mark hated their callousness, but he respected their efficiency; it takes a lot of planning to outsource a job of this scale, fine-tuned like a Swiss watch. Rainbow will need everything at its disposal to match them.

Suddenly, the door to the workshop opened, stopping his train of thought. Mark turned around incredibly ticked; it wasn't even ten minutes since his conversation with Emma. But his anger quickly subsided when he saw his new visitor's face. He was stunned to see him. The furrows, the greying hair, and the menacing look were giveaways. It was Baker.

"Sir?"

"What the bloody hell are you doing 'ere, son?" the older man asked him; his voice reeked with disappointment.

Almost immediately, Mark stood up to salute him- a gesture he seldom gave to anyone. Michael Baker. One of a handful of people that the science prodigy rightfully feared and respected in equal measure. At the back of his mind, he knew he should've listened to Emma and Tim.

"Mute. You're supposed to be in the range today."

"I'm just spooling through the videos again, sir. I figured that-"

"That faffing about with those tapes is worth skipping the exercise, innit?"

Baker then made his way to Mark's station, quite eager to vent his annoyance to the young lad. Not that Mark could blame his former RSM, considering that he did defy his orders again, even after Tim and Emma egged him not to. It can't be helped if the analyst in him demanded greater attention.

"Sir, with respect, I believe my job is more important than a firearms test. I'm compiling data on these terrorists we know bugger all about..."

From what Rainbow gathered over the past few months, the masked gunmen are Americans living off the grid with anarchist leanings, a blatant disregard for human life, and access to some serious firepower. Beyond that, however, the team had nothing. Not even Vauxhall Cross or Langley knew who they were or what made them tick. As much as he didn't want to acknowledge this fact, Mark himself was unnerved. His current quarry, Rainbow's quarry, is much different from those he hunted in the past. These vicious men were really, _really_ good at leaving no tracks, even in death.

"…And I need this done because the next time they hit, we might not be there in time to-"

"Look, Markie…" Baker cut in, "You're not the only one itching to kill these bastards. But when the time comes to cop them, the team is going to count on yer aim. Not yer head."

Mark fell silent.

"Those. Tapes. Can wait." The older man made his point clear.

Baker turned away, shaking his head. Right there and then, déjà vu hit. It's the same thing the grizzled veteran did when Mark and the rest of his troop returned from Tehran, three months after he passed Selection. The young man's debut was memorable for preventing an international incident and almost causing a different one. Mark will forever remember that mission every time he sees those words stricken off from his file with black ink.

"For God's sake, you don't have to do everything lad."

"I know that sir…"

"Then why keep at it, eh?!" Baker turned to him, furiously. "Do I have to crack your thick noggin before you learn?"

Mark felt slighted. He didn't like being treated as a child would.

"Sir, our enemy is different." He explained his findings succinctly, "They used mobiles to coordinate the attack on the Consulate while they sat on their armchairs thousands of miles away."

"As if we haven't faced the likes of this lot before." Baker scoffed.

"Yes we haven't!" Mark defended, "They've hit three countries in six months! Six months! Sir, these people have more resources than those psychopaths in Finsbury Park!"

For a moment, it felt like he was with the GCHQ again, arguing with his boss. He loathed those times of friction with his colleagues, simply because he had an answer or say on anything. He wasn't always right, of course, but he usually was. And it took a great deal of convincing his superiors just to prevent the bombing in King's Cross.

"Yes, I know. And they're about to hit Heathrow."

"I… wait, what?"

A wry smile formed in Baker's face. For once, he caught the lad off guard.

"That lass, Meghan? Her chums at the Office of Naval Intelligence have been monitoring trans-Atlantic traffic for months…"

He walked towards Mark; an aura of authority followed him as he approached.

"…And Sebastian?" He continued, "His Interpol contacts negotiated on our behalf so we can use their security framework more freely."

Mark was stunned. The Canuck with the chin curtain had a law enforcement background, but he didn't tell him that he had friends in Lyon.

"Do you know how we managed all that?" Baker asked.

"…"

"Teamwork. _Teamwork_. A word I'm sure I need to drill into your fucking head before you appreciate it."

It's another of those rare instances where the know-it-all had nothing for a rebuttal. He had no idea that Rainbow's newest recruits had those connections. Was he so engrossed in his work that he forgot to do a background check on them? That he readily dismissed the team's new 'heavies' as mere thugs than serious professionals? Perhaps. And to think that Six is reviewing the dossiers of four more candidates. It slowly dawned on him that he had a lot of catching up to do. The team was actually being prepared for another mission, yet he wrote it off as negligible.

Mark lowered his eyes and looked away. It's been a while since he was given a good lecturing. Baker was nothing if not a taskmaster, but he also had a more sensible side. He understood why the lad acted like he did. After all, the youngest in the family has the most to prove. Still, he needed to wake up.

"This ain't the Regiment anymore, Markie." The older man continued, "This is not Tehran, not Cairo, not London. This is Rainbow!"

It didn't feel that way, until now. His raised voice proved it.

"…I brought you 'ere because you're one of Her Majesty's best. But we don't need you to hang back in the helo anymore. I'm not gonna order you anymore to watch everything from an OP and a fucking monitor. You're in the frontlines now! I need you to help us stop these buggers. And I'll be rightfully pissed if you died on my watch because you missed a fucking shot!"

Profanity aside, Mark didn't have anything to criticize. It was the first time Baker told him any of that. And he was right; it's high time for Mark to act like a soldier should. He already spent much of his public service spying on people. When the air calmed down, Baker talked to him again, this time in a more peaceful tone.

"I'll expect you at the range at 0900, soldier. Is that clear?"

"…Crystal, sir." The young man replied.

Baker nodded back in approval. Mark can scarcely believe that he was given thirty minutes to prepare, even after defying orders. No doubt it'd be a special session between him and the old codger. Still, he got off easy, all things considered. Baker then left the lad's work station and made his way to the door.

Before going back outside, however, he turned around.

"Any word from the rest?" he asked. "The missus wants to know our roster before we mobilize."

Mark knew what he meant. Naturally, Six gave the task of monitoring the team's phone calls and emails to their resident SIGINT expert.

"Weiss is still in Leipzig sir, sorting things out with her family. Kateb is in the Philippines, helping with MSF's hurricane relief efforts. I've yet to ring the others."

After this, Mark picked up his gun to inspect it. That was the moment Baker needed to catch the lad off guard, yet again.

"Do try to take the exercise seriously, Markie."

"Sir?"

"Emma will be watching. I hear she loves blokes with good aim."

Mark's heart skipped a beat. For the first time since secondary school, his cheeks went red. Amused at himself, the older man grinned.

"What? You think I don't know why you _really_ fixed her drone?"

* * *

 **Author's Comments/Notes:** Okay, this one took me a lot more time than I expected, but I hope you liked it! This chapter is a direct continuation of the previous story, which focused on Glaz, so you might want to read that first for context. The next one, which will focus on IQ, might take quite a while because of personal stuff; please stay tuned for it!


	4. Chapter 4 - IQ

.

* * *

 **Monika "IQ" Weiss**

* * *

Leipzig has changed a lot since Monika left it in '96. The streets are cleaner. The nightlife is a little bit louder. And with enough prodding from friends, an evening train commute at the Hauptbahnhof can lead to a shopping spree at Promenaden. She can confirm this because of the splitting headache that greeted her this morning. But perhaps none have witnessed the changing of the times better than Monika's mother, who has lived to see the Cold War curfews and student protests be replaced by the concerts and parties of the new millennium. The flatscreen TV gracing her old-style living room is another example of this contrast.

" _...Once again, we are here at Canary Wharf where, yesterday at 11 o'clock Greenwich Mean Time, Met Police and SCO19 raided a flat suspected of stowing a shipment of illegal firearms and explosives..."_

The feed comes direct from a British news affiliate. High-def cable TV is just one of the perks of living in an apartment in Bachviertel, which Monika was able to afford thanks to Rainbow's higher stipend and the royalties from her brainchild 'Spectre'. She believes that the best way to keep in touch with global events is to head straight to the source. Of course, there's no guarantee that the news there will be presented any better.

"... _Even now, Scotland Yard has refused to comment on the operation, which resulted in the deaths of two suspected terrorists, as well as a dozen arrests throughout London and elsewhere. Sources believe that the weapons seized were intended for an attack at one of the city's busiest airports..._ "

Monika's mother doesn't understand English, but the old woman is not that senile to forget what 'Police' means. The cars with sirens, the men in uniform, and the people herded from cordons are telltale signs of police work in London and anywhere in the world. Seeing these images more often than usual, however, is a sign of terrible times. The blonde ex-cop can attest to that since she flew back home last week for some well-deserved R-and-R. The news report on the screen drove the point home even further, as it replayed yesterday's scene of two body bags being carted into an ambulance.

" _Oh, das sieht schrecklich aus!_ " ("Oh my, that looks terrible!"), the old woman commented.

" _Ja. Erzähl mir davon..."_ ("Yeah. Tell me about it..."), her daughter replied dispassionately, opening an aspirin tablet for her throbbing temple.

There's no doubt that Monika's teammates were involved in this latest action in London. To think that they've responded to not one, but _two_ terrorist attacks in just a week, she can only imagine Rainbow's current state of readiness. And her gut tells her that this is only a taste of things to come. She won't be surprised if this homecoming of hers is going to be the last one in quite a while. At least her new job never gets dull.

Just as Monika was about to take a sip of cider, her mother spoke.

" _Monika..._ " she cleared her throat, "... _über diesen Mann_..." ("...about that man...")

" _Wer_?" ("Who?")

" _Der gut aussehende mann letzte Nacht..._ " ("That handsome man last night...")

The old lady was smiling. The sudden change of subject aside, Monika didn't know whom she was referring to. Then it hit like a lightning strike; she forgot that Elias was with her when she came home last night from the Promenaden. A sense of dread and uncertainty crawled up her spine.

". _..Ist er dein Freund?_ " ("...Is he your boyfriend?")

Right there and then, the younger woman grimaced, almost spitting out the warm liquid from her lips. She should've seen this question coming.

" _Nein! Nein!_ " Monika vehemently denied, " _Wie sind Sie auf diese Idee gekommen!?_ " ("What gave you that idea!?")

Before her mother could reply, Monika's smartphone cut in with a loud ringing. The blonde woman quickly brought it up to her ear; it was Meghan on the phone from Hereford. Thank goodness. She's not exactly the person that the German wanted to the talk to right now, but it was a godsend that she called when she did. The last thing that Monika needed was a finger-wagging from dear old mom about her daughter's love life, or lack thereof. But can anyone blame Frau Weiss? At this rate, she'll die in bed before her daughter ties the knot.

" _Augenblick. Ich muss diesen Anruf annehmen..._ " ("Just a second. I need to take this call.")

Monika excused herself from the room, leaving the elderly woman free to switch channels as she pleased.

"...Meg?"

"Hey there Ice Queen!" A lively voice answered back.

That damn nickname again. One of these days, she's going to punch Meghan's pretty face square in the jaw. That is, _if_ she can land a hit before the frogwoman catches her arm and snaps it between her ridiculous biceps.

"…Did you get Mark's message?"

The lady SEAL usually assists their 'baby brother' in keeping tabs of each operative's whereabouts. Her surveillance and snooping skills have a lot of uses, after all.

" _Ja_. LH111. Birmingham. 1045 hours."

Those were the flight details of Monika's journey back to England from Flughafen Leipzig/Halle, encrypted and marked 'priority' when she got it earlier this morning. It was also an unwelcome reminder that her week-long leave ends today, the same with Tina, who'll be flying from Vancouver tonight. At least the German woman didn't have to pay for the ticket. Birmingham seemed like a weird choice of destination, however; Six may have arranged for everyone's return flights to be as low-key as possible for security reasons.

"Vhy am I not flying to London?" Monika inquired, in her rather thick accent.

"Ain't that obvious? After that shit in the Wharf yesterday, the city is pretty much on lockdown right now."

No doubt that the boss lady had a hand in talking the Minister of Defense into making that arrangement.

"Let me guess... That raid vas your doing, Meg?"

"Heheh, yeah..." she confirmed, "I got a ping from my girls in Maryland about a possible Tango-Alpha on Heathrow, so Rainbow crosschecked it with the ICPO and Europol..."

Monika felt a hint of pride. Adding Europe's law enforcement agencies into the team's intelligence network was her suggestion. She's glad Sebastien agreed to share his own contacts after all.

"...Baker ran the show. He brought Seamus, Liz, Tim, and Markie along. They caught the poor fuckers doping at the apartment."

Judging by Meghan's voice, Monika deduced she was in charge of comms during the mission. Baker most likely led the first assault team, with Eliza as his breacher and number two. That meant Seamus had the second team, with Mark as support. Timur most likely provided overwatch, as he's wont to do. Since British TV credited London's Finest for the successful raid, Rainbow must have worn Metropolitan Police tactical gear to conceal their identities- a different approach from that rescue op in Abidjan. But Mark's rather active role in the mission was unusual. That pompous poindexter certainly didn't volunteer to be part of the assault, did he? Unless, he was ordered at gunpoint. Or worse, Baker 'politely' asked him to come out of his hole and deploy on a field mission for a change.

"Mute? Really?" Monika asked.

"Yeah. Can you believe he _actually_ joined us at the range yesterday? That nerd was a decent shot. You can watch the highlight reel when you get back."

That's hardly a surprise; the Special Air Service takes pride on their marksmanship and they go through great lengths to protect that reputation. What Mark _really_ needs are pointers on being a teamplayer. And he can certainly learn a lot from Elias, who has been BPOL's most effective pointman for as long as Monika can remember. The man's corny and sometimes tasteless jokes can take some getting used to, but she is living proof that they're manageable. The NCTC commandos he trained in Mumbai would also concur.

"Oh, speaking of 'getting some'…"

"Hmm?"

"…Anything exciting happened between you and Eli?" Meghan asked. "I mean, he caught a flight to Germany a couple of days ago…"

Monika placed a hand on her forehead; her headache intensified. Not this again. It's been a hot topic in Hereford for a few weeks now. Why the hell does the team keep insisting on them having a deeper relationship? Is it because of Hamburg? Monika respects Elias. That's it. She respects him because it takes a special kind of character to jump in front of a bullet, take one for the team, then quip about it later. 'At least it wasn't my face. I want an open-casket funeral, dammit!' Hamburg was memorable in more ways than one, if only because she almost lost him. She didn't need to remember how grief felt like.

And to answer her question, nothing 'exciting' happened. She, Elias, and a few of their BPOL friends at Potsdam only did an impromptu reunion last night, shopped around, and ended up wasted at a bar. Monika blew more than half of her monthly stipend on shoes and jeans. Not one of the engineering whiz's smarter moves, but the memories she made were worth the price. Her only regret was allowing herself to get so smashed that she needed Elias to walk her home.

"…And since Bremen is only, what, a train away from your place, I was wondering if-"

"For the last time, you _dummkopf.._." Monika cut in, "Vee are not seeing each other!"

"Woah, easy there your Highness-"

"Und stop calling me that!"

Monika's voice was louder, annoyed that the Yank was getting her jollies hearing her exasperated. The old woman at the living room could only look on and raise a curious eyebrow, wondering what gibberish her daughter was spouting.

"Me and the boys usually find him ogling your magnificent ass, so we thought..."

The German can't believe the gall of these people. Checking out one's hindquarters is a courtship ritual now?

"Hmph. Ist zer anyone in the team who _doesn't_ do that?"

Meghan laughed in response. Both of them knew that the only person who fit that description was Baker. A grim and dour old bastard, he's too busy training everyone and keeping them in line to even think about such mischief.

"Anyway..." the other woman continued, "I'm also supposed to tell you that a shuttle's arranged for you guys at BHX Car Park 4. Alpha-Five-Niner-Five-Whiskey-Oscar-Delta."

Monika noted the plate number in her mind. She has never been to Birmingham Airport before. But at least Elias is with her to ask for directions when all else fails. Seriously, that man can hide his accent and act like a proper Engländer if he really wanted to.

"It'll leave at 1700. Don't be late!" Meghan cheerfully spoke.

" _Danke_. See you tonight."

"Likewise. Stay safe, Ice Queen."

* * *

...

The old woman stood outside the apartment lobby, giving her daughter the warmest hug she could.

" _Pass auf dich auf, Schatz._ " ("Take care of yourself, sweetheart.")

'Never leave things unsaid'. Monika took that lesson to heart after surviving more than ten years in this business.

" _Ich dich auch Mama._ " ("I love you too, mom.")

It'll be 30 minutes before she reaches the airport, then five to seven hours before her plane lands on British soil. Then maybe a two-hour drive to Hereford. Then it's back to the usual routine: PT, firearms tests, CQB drills, entry and assault maneuvers. Tomorrow morning, she'll review the London mission and take notes. A few months from now, she'll miss Leipzig again. But there's nothing she can do about it. She's with Rainbow now. More importantly, she loves every bit of it.

Elias was just outside, leaning on the door of his black M6 convertible. He looked snazzy, and ridiculous, in his collared shirt and his prized Oakleys. Monika couldn't tell if he was checking her out or not. He probably thought she looked plain wearing her loose jeans, pink sneakers, and her favorite grey CalTech sweater. That'd be disappointing and _deeply_ insulting if it were true.

" _Hallo Weiss..._ ", he called her. "... _Wie geht es deinem Kopf_?" ("How is your head?")

She wanted to flip him the bird. But not in front of her mother. Instead, she tossed him one of her two gym bags; the heaviest, of course. That's for giving her a hangover.

 _"Nächstes Mal, Kötz ... wähle ich den Ort aus."_ ("Next time, Kötz ... I pick the place.")

Elias laughed back as he struggled to lift the heavy bag. When he brought it down, he turned to the direction of Monika's mother. The way her face brightened, she was obviously glad to see him. In turn, he's more than willing to offer his hand.

 _"Guten Tag! I_ _ch heiße Elias."_ ("Good day! I am Elias.")

The old woman shook his hand, happily. That brought a grin to Monika as well.

 _"...Ich bin ihr Diener für heute._ _Das ist der _beste Job_ der Welt!"_ ("...I'm her servant for today. It's the best job in the world!")

Again with the jokes. The blonde woman tried her best not to laugh; she had a reputation to keep. She'll have to try harder, now that she'll be sharing an aisle with this buffoon for the next few hours. At least she's in good hands.

Monika looked away. Her chest was pounding the whole time.

* * *

 **Author's Comments/Notes:** After playing her a lot and listening to her voicelines, IQ came across to me as a no-nonsense hardass (which was also kinda implied in her bio), hence I thought it fitting to pair her with a funny guy like Blitz. Also, apologies to German speakers for any mistakes in grammar/spelling I missed. :p


	5. Chapter 5 - Doc

.

* * *

 **Gustave "Doc" Kateb**

* * *

The child cried loudly when Gustave inserted the syringe. He was sorry, but it's for her own good; the dehydration would have killed her in a few days otherwise.

"There, there… it's over."

With those words, he gently pulled the needle from her shoulder, while her mother whispered lullabies to her ear. Soon enough, the little girl stopped bawling. The French doctor then pressed a cotton ball on top of her punctured skin, as he'd done countless times before. A few seconds later, another life was saved.

"She's a brave girl." He praised. "What's her name again?"

"Hope, _po_ sir."

Hope. A fitting name for a survivor, Gustave smiled at the thought. He then pulled out a piece of paper from his back pocket and scribbled instructions for the pediatrician. The child was frail and needed an NG feed tube, which unfortunately he was neither qualified nor had the proper equipment to do himself. Besides, the medical tent was already at full capacity.

"Here. Give this to Norma. She'll know what to do."

The woman had tears in her eyes as she nodded in thanks, grateful for her baby's second chance at life. But that may be little consolation for the three-year-old and her mother- the sole survivors of a family of seven. He recalled that the father, the uncle, the grandmother, and the two older siblings were among the thousands killed by the super storm two years ago. It pained him to see them alive but in dire straits. Now, he regrets bringing only a handful of ORS packets for his latest trip.

Nonetheless, their story strengthened Gustave's resolve, who was initially hesitant to return to the Philippines and join his fellow volunteers in their latest humanitarian mission. Haiyan devastated much of the country two years ago and the monsoon seasons that followed have seriously hampered reconstruction efforts. While the French doctor was amazed to see the people in high spirits, he also wondered why a lot of the children still needed oral rehydration therapy, at least in this village. The government was more than prepared to face last week's hurricane, what with the donations and financial assistance they received in the days that followed. Yet local food and medical supplies still dried up fast.

"Next?" He called.

Not a moment after, a person entered the tent and headed towards Gustave, cradling his baby boy. The doctor was stunned at the sight of another sickly child. Even without a thorough medical exam, he knew that the infant was malnourished. Glancing outside of the tent entrance for a moment only confounded his shock, as he saw a queue of other individuals, parents and children all, suffering the same.

 _Mon Dieu..._

It's going to be a long day. MSF wasn't kidding when they said that this village was in dire need of help.

* * *

" _Je suis sûre que tu as fait de ton mieux_." ("I'm sure you did your best.") Emma tried to lift Gustave's spirits.

"*sigh* _J'aimerais pouvoir me dire ça._ " ("I wish I could say that to myself.")

There was perhaps a dozen or so kids who still needed treatment that day, but he gave them to his colleagues when Six made the call. Try as he might to let the matter slide, it remained with him even after he boarded that plane from Cebu to Birmingham yesterday. He knew he shouldn't have left. But there is no use crying over spilled milk now that he's back with Rainbow. Médecins Sans Frontières will have to do the rest of the work without him.

The sky was gloomy this morning, typical of British weather. For Gustave, it reminded him about his weekend morning jogs at Bois de Bolougne as a med student. Those were the days, he thought. Jogging with the cool breeze and the scent of fresh grass was usually the only reprieve he had from the sleepless nights and overbearing professors. He was lucky to derive that same pleasure from the morning PTs at Hereford, 20 years later. Happy memories were more than welcome, when thoughts of the poor people he left behind lingered in his mind.

Right now, he and his French colleagues are taking a break after finishing Rainbow's daily morning laps around the SAS grounds. Everyone is wearing their standard PT gear: a pair of running shorts, matching shoes, and a white shirt patched with the national flag they represent. Some, like Emma, donned their fitness jackets as well, standing out among the dozen or so other Rainbow troopers who were also having a breather from the exercise. Seamus was in charge of today's physical activities; his massive build made the role even more appropriate.

"Argh! _Fais gaffe, mec_! ("Be careful, man!") Julien complained.

The young man was sitting in the pavement, in pain for having twisted his ankle during the run. It was a disappointing show for the experienced runner, but accidents happen. Emma and Gilles stood beside him as their resident sawbones worked his hands. Gustave needed to make sure that the Achilles tendon was not torn. But the doctor found out it difficult to concentrate when he himself was winded from the run and fatigued by jet lag. He hoped the Tylenol would keep him on his feet.

" _Ne bouge pas, ou ça va te faire très mal_." ("Hold still, or this will hurt a lot.")

Perhaps the biggest irony in the counter-terrorism business is that terrorists aren't the biggest threat for these brave men and women. Training exercises, designed to keep their skills sharp and their lives easy, are statistically more dangerous, given that injuries are all but inevitable. Rainbow has been lucky so far, though. One of Gustave's acquaintances in Fort Bragg claims that Delta Force lose one of their own to training every year. It sounded hogwash, but the French doctor was not about to let that happen here, at least while he's still around.

"What's all this then, eh?", Seamus called to the group. "A gammy leg?"

"Maybe." Gustave replied, "I need to do a proper physical to be sure."

Actually, an MRI or an X-ray might also be necessary to gauge the extent of the injury. He didn't say that to the Scotsman, though, because scaring the bejeezus out of poor Julien wasn't his idea of fun.

"Aww, see? There's hope for you yet, _p'tit frère_ (little brother)." Emma teased, stroking her young friend's hair like a puppy's fur.

"Wow. That _seriously_ made me feel better, thanks..."

Hope. That's how the team saw Gustave. If the bullet went through the Kevlar vest and entered their gut, they can count on him to drag them out of the firefight and pull the lead out of their system. If they tripped while running, if they burned themselves with metal oxide, or if they woke up with a massive hangover after a night in the SAS pub, he would be there to set them right as rain. _Servitas vitae_ , whatever it takes. He was the living embodiment of it.

And yet, the thought scared him as well. There is _always_ someone who needed his help, even though he knows he can't help everyone when he has things like 'energy', 'time', and 'resources' to worry about. A part of him still regretted leaving the MSF mission behind, even though he had an obligation to Rainbow. But it felt like he made the right choice this time. Two terrorist attacks in one week is likely a precursor for more bombings, killings, and other such senseless violence worldwide. Gustave knew that the team will need him for the worst. But did he leave another child to die of dehydration just to save another one from a terrorist's bullet? Did he cock up the weighing scales and failed to see which life needed saving first?

It was so hard to think. Damn it all, he is still exhausted from that trip. The only thing he can do was to finish bandaging Julien's injured limb. It only took a few seconds.

" _Maintenant, va chercher un sac de glace pour le gonflement._ " ("Now go get an ice pack for the swelling.")

Gustave helped his younger comrade get up. His foot still hurt like hell, judging from his pained expression.

"All sorted out, Rook?" Seamus asked.

"I-I think so..."

Gilles led the young man by the shoulder then spoke in a deep voice, " _Viens, gamin. Je t'emmène à l'infirmerie_." ("Come on, kid. I'll get you to the infirmary.")

Julien hesitated for a bit, but he ultimately relented. One can only hide unbearable pain for too long, so he let the towering man help him limp away from the group. Gustave smiled at another job well done. At the back of his mind, though, he thought about going with them. His _entire_ body felt like crap, unlike the ex-GIGN marksman.

"How about you, Doc?"

"Hmm?"

"Not meaning to judge, but ya look buggered mate."

Damn, Seamus noticed too. Gustave was trying to ignore the pain in his knees and shoulders; the medicine was wearing off. Coupled with a parched throat and frantic heartbeat, the signs all pointed to dehydration. But there are still a few more exercises to go after their break and the team will count on him to keep them from the same fate as Julien. He must hold his weary and aching body at bay for a while longer, as much as he wanted to follow Gilles's lead.

"I'm a doctor, sir. I can handle myself."

Of course that didn't work; the bald Scot immediately saw through his chest-thumping. He gave the Frenchman a solid, but painless thwap in the back.

"Oi, I know an accident waitin' to happen when I see one. You've done enough. Sit this one out."

As if on cue, Emma then went to Gustave's side.

"I'll make sure he doesn't hurt himself, sir."

With a nod, Seamus went back to the other troopers and led them to the training yard, bellowing orders along the way. What the hell just happened? For a moment, the doctor was speechless at his sudden fortune. He was all set on giving his all this morning, exhaustion and jet lag be damned. And yet, the words came out from the mouth of their trusted team leader himself. Gustave was _ordered_ to rest. And who's he to disobey a direct command?

" _Tiens, prends ça_." ("Here, take this.")

Emma brought out an energy drink and a bottle of Tylenol from her jacket's pockets, no doubt the same ones Gustave left in his bunk this morning. By God, his body were just looking for those.

" _Tu devrais prendre soin de toi plus souvent, doc_." ("You need to take care of yourself more often, doctor.") She said with a smile.

He tried his best not to appear weak, even though he felt like one of those sickly kids from half a world away. It took a few seconds for him to muster something to say.

"Emmanuelle, _ce n'était pas la peine_." ("You didn't have to.")

" _Pour que sois malade? Hors de question_." ("And let you get sick? No way.")

The stoic man could only give a short laugh, touched at her empathy. She just saved him from taking the first step to cerebral edema, hypovolemic shock, or kidney failure. It felt like it was the first time in ages since he accepted someone's help. Gustave conditioned himself to be self-reliant, as he's the only one in the team with proper medical training. It was his solemn pledge to keep everyone's well-being in mind, all by himself. So far, there wasn't a single moment in his career with Rainbow when he considered sharing this burden with others.

He was such a fool. Why did he think he can do this job on his own? Can he save people if he can't save _himself_? Rainbow has been watching his back since the very beginning and he was more worried about letting them down. He should've known better. These people willingly risk life and limb to defend complete strangers, how far would they go for their friends? These people sincerely share his vision of a safer world, full of hope. Hope. It was comforting to know he's not the only one who understood its value.

Gustave turned to look at Emma, expecting to see a sheepish smile as usual. Instead it was a friendly one.

"… _Merci, pour tout ce que tu as fait._ " ("…Thank you for everything you've done.") She gave him a heartfelt pat.

This time, the praise succeeded in warming his heart. Damn, if he was younger and still single, he'd probably kiss her right now. He returned her smile instead.

" _On aurait besoin de plus de gens comme toi_." ("We could use more people like you.")

After all, her heart is in the right place. Besides, not everyone in MSF is a doctor anyway.

" _Tu veux que je joue avec des aiguilles? Vraiment?_ _"_ ("You want me to play with needles? Really?") Emma laughed.

Good point. The way she handles electricity, it's probably a bad idea to trust her with a syringe.

* * *

 **Author's Notes/Comments:** Before anything else, I like to say a great many thanks to ElPadre0 for helping me with the French dialogue and words. This story would have taken much, much longer to make otherwise. I personally had a hard time writing about Doc, but I hope it turned out well. Also, thank you all for the positive feedback in my previous entries! In appreciation, I started a poll in my profile to let you guys decide on the next operator you want me to write about (the poll will close on July 22). Cheers!


	6. Chapter 6 - Ash

.

* * *

 **Eliza "Ash" Cohen**

* * *

"Alright. Let's do this."

Eliza hugged the wall of the rustic, dimly-lit hallway; her finger rested above the trigger of her Remington R4 Carbine. Gunshots and explosions continued to echo throughout the compound as the assault progressed. Just 20 meters ahead of her was a large Balsa wood barrier, serving as one of the walls of the adjacent room. Somewhere behind that thin layer of lumber is the 'subject': Erika Mustermann, mid-30s, Caucasian, ginger-hair, German-born physics professor at CalTech, kidnapped two days ago. Eliza imagined her to be guarded by at least two tangos. No doubt that a warm welcome has already been prepared to meet her and her partner, who have slipped into the perimeter undetected.

"Take it slow and easy, Liz." Jordan whispered, "I'm right behind you."

His hands held a suppressed Five-Seven, while his M1014 was slung across his back. Even after years of serving the Bureau with him, Eliza still found it dumbfounding to see him heavily-armed yet calm amidst the automatic fire and the loud reports of flashbangs and grenades. But that's because his mind was singularly-focused: breach the room in front of them and secure the 'subject' while the enemy was preoccupied. Even without talking to each other, both of them knew what to do.

Eliza's first instinct was to use her camera drone and reconnoiter the area. However, there wasn't enough time for a methodical rescue. The assault has been going on for two full minutes, which was way beyond their timetable.

"Fuck 'slow and easy'…" she muttered.

30 seconds may not be enough to finish the mission. If a quick snatch-and-grab is in order, she needs to do it now. Ignoring the former marine's advice, Eliza brought up the loaded M120 launcher hanging on her waist. Jordan can only watch in utter disbelief as Lizzy motioned to abandon any semblance of subtlety. But all thoughts of arguing with her went out of the window when she brought the launcher across her chest, aimed at the wall, and pulled the trigger.

*Thwoomph*

The breaching round darted across the hallway with vicious abandon, then bored itself into the wall. A second later, the round exploded with a loud, distinctive boom, sending smoke and splinters about and leaving behind a gaping, human-sized hole. Eliza grinned at the sight of her handiwork. All that's left for her to do was to reenact their drills in Quantico: rush the breach, stack up, flashbang in, move inside, find the tangos, shoot the tangos, grab the 'subject', and then make a quick-

"Hostage KIA. Mission failed."

Her train of thought was derailed when her earpiece spoke those words. What the fuck just happened? The answer came not long after the smoke cleared. Beyond the new ingress she made, a large figure was splayed on the floor. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw the body of Ms. Mustermann, lifeless and flat on her back a few meters from the hole. Right then, Eliza felt her arms and knees lock.

 _Holy shit..._

Three seconds later, her vision went dark.

…

"Simulation terminated", the computer reported.

Slowly, Eliza took off the head-mounted display. She blinked her eyes repeatedly to help them adjust from the semi-realistic computer graphics to the lifeless brick and wooden walls of the SAS killhouse. She then proceeded to remove the sensors in her chest and limbs. Her body was perspiring like hell, much more so than when she ran the laps this morning. Not long after, she heard cheers and sighs of relief throughout the building, as all the 'dead' tangos and operators stood up and joined their fellow Rainbow troopers in exchanging handshakes.

All except for Jordan and Eliza, who shared nothing but a few moments' worth of blank stares. Flabbergasted and speechless, the Israeli-American didn't notice that her sweaty cheeks were also flush red with embarrassment. Jordan's bland expression said it all. She screwed up big time, and that was enough to tick her off.

"Not. One. Word."

Her words were curt and grouchy as she stormed off the hallway in a fit, gripping her blank-loaded guns and the now-deactivated strobes of her suit. Her partner can only shake his head, followed by a soft chuckle that she would no longer hear.

* * *

…

The meeting room was livelier than usual; people were chatting, laughing, or discussing. Just an hour ago, they were divided between two ad-hoc teams, unimaginatively named Orange and Blue. They traded simulated gunfire with each other earlier this morning, but here they are now gawking at the large screen that displayed the training results. It was quite annoying for Eliza to see the others in high spirits, whereas all manner of curses and self-criticism flooded her mind. Jordan, who was sitting beside her, felt her bitterness and decided against cheering her up.

Eliza crossed her arms and shook her head. Stupid mistake, stupid time limit, stupid VR... her list of gripes was growing longer every second. What's the fuss all about anyway? VR is nothing more than a fancy gimmick since the stupid computer can only accommodate ten operators at a time. Rather than practice tactics with everyone on board, the dozen or so members of Orange and Blue have to rotate five guys after every 'round'. In her experience, the MILES used by the Americans and the IDF were more authentic, and therefore provided more accurate training results, than a frigging 'video game'. But the others seem to have better opinions on the VR tech Rainbow had. Admittedly, fighting in a virtual simulation of actual combat is more immersing, and daresay more fun, than a round of laser tag. The banter in the meeting room echoed this enthusiasm.

"Is that how you treat girls, Craig?" Meghan spoke with a half-hearted frown, "You shot me in the tits!"

She's exaggerating, obviously. According to the screen, the VR system registered her 'death' as multiple gunshots in the upper torso, nothing more. But given how it also replicated bullet wounds with mild electric shocks to the body, she knew what she felt.

"Woah woah, it ain't sexist if I always shoot center mass, Meg."

"At least you took her out." Elias commented, "She's a madwoman with ze C4."

The GSG-9 pointman can still feel the jolts that went throughout his body. He was 'killed' twice by Meghan's rather unconventional tactic of _throwing_ C4 packs before setting them off, instead of planting them like a booby trap. Elias found the first time quite hilarious because he didn't see it coming, but the second one was a tad annoying, even for a jolly man like him. His partner Monika, on the other hand, was silent about the whole thing. Rather than join the banter, the German woman scribbled on her notebook instead, presumably to think about strategies to counter Rainbow's unorthodox tactic of hurling plastic explosives.

But who the hell throws a block of C4 anyway? And is it really possible to toss that thing like a grenade? Eliza mused about this for a while- maybe if she had Meg's mannish arms…

Suddenly, the door to the meeting room opened. Baker emerged from the threshold donning his British Army fatigues and holding a paper-laden clipboard.

"Alright lads, settle down."

The chatting immediately stopped after he spoke. Everyone sat upright, acknowledging his commanding presence.

"First order of business…" The old man opened, wasting no time. "…Status on Kateb and Nizan?"

"Still in the infirmary, sir." Seamus replied in his Scottish drawl. "Doc is just knackered, but Rook might be usin' a crutch for a while."

That also meant that the two Frenchmen won't be able to join the team in the shooting range later today. Lucky bastards, Eliza mumbled in her head.

"Alright then." Baker nodded and set the clipboard down.

After having a blast in the VR room, most of the team eagerly looked forward to their individual post-training assessment. Naturally, that responsibility fell to the most senior field operative of Rainbow, who felt right at home showing the 'younglings' how it's done.

"I'll cut to the point. Bloody good show from everyone, as expected. And a proper tally so far: Oranges four, Blues three…"

It was a tight battle indeed. If the simulations are anything to go by, a serious free-for-all involving these men and women is guaranteed to end in a bloodbath. But that's practically a given, considering the caliber of Rainbow's operatives. Well, assuming they don't make a god-awful rookie fuckup like Eliza did, as she reminded herself. There's no doubt that her 'killer entrance' will be the highlight of today's meeting. That sliver of thought proved to be prophetic.

"…But I did notice several missteps." Baker continued, "Starting with Tsang."

"Yes sir?" Tina answered.

"LHT placement was solid, but you failed to nab anyone with 'em. Had to use your shotgun to fight Blue Team instead. Yer thoughts on this, lass?"

"Redundant positioning, sir." She replied objectively, having realized her mistake beforehand. "My team already had all the ingresses covered, so I should have placed my Welcome Mats in other areas of traffic to pick off enemy flankers."

Baker nodded, approving her tactical analysis.

"Good, write that down. Blue Team stormed the compound with impunity in three out of the seven rounds. Don't _ever_ let the enemy do this in a real asset protection scenario; make it a priority to take 'em outta' play _before_ they reach your perimeter."

Tina nodded back and scribbled on her notebook. Baker then sifted to the next page in the clipboard.

"Weiss."

"Sir?" Monika answered.

"You were able to map out 80 to 95% of Orange Team's electronics, yet their defenses still caused considerable casualties on Blue Team. How's this possible?"

The German woman's answer was concise.

" _Nebel des Krieges_. Fog of war. The Spectre can only detect electrical signatures, but I do not know vhat they are und vhere exactly they come from. The information I give to the team needs to be more accurate."

"And how do we fix that?" The old man asked.

"I vill create new detection parameters for the Spectre... new signal processing protocols… have it identify exact device specifications to improve visual feedback. I think Cambridge already developed an algorithm for this last year?"

"Fair enough." Baker nodded, "Markie still knows a few boffins there who can sort you out. Take this up with him later."

" _Jawohl_." ("Affirmative.")

Monika then proceeded to write these suggestions down. Judging by the focused look of her face, she already has the blueprints of a Spectre Mk V in mind. Meanwhile to her left, Eliza overheard Elias whisper something to Jordan.

"I like it vhen she talks dirty…"

A brief round of snickers came from the two. Eliza wanted to join them; she was willing to do anything to distract her mind from the anxiety bubbling within her. From her days with Shaldag, to her rather brief-service with the American FBI, not once did she ever commit a colossal mistake, even in training. But there's always a first time for everything. And true enough, she was next on the chopping block.

"…And Cohen…" Baker spoke again, this time in a more disappointed tone.

The female fed's pride was all but shattered at this point.

"…Sir?" she replied, holding back a chuckle.

"Care to explain... why you decided to bring Ms. Mustermann home in a bucket?"

With the push of a button, the large screen switched to a computerized rendition of Eliza's breach attempt an hour ago, much to her dismay and the mocking cheers of Rainbow. The scene revealed that the hostage was actually _facing_ the wall that she fired an M120 round into. When the round detonated, the VR system calculated the number of lethal fragments and shrapnel that entered the computer-generated woman's skull, if she wasn't killed by the violent explosion. Monika, who designed the character's appearance and provided her rather-useless backstory, couldn't help but laugh at what happened to her creation. It's quite telling when even Ice Queen cracks a smile at something this bad.

"You gave her one hell of a facial, sister…" Meghan joked.

"I bet you can do a better job, Shurhat." Tim told his seatmate, who remained poker-faced watching the spectacle. "Remember that time with your cluster charge?"

The Alpha Group demoman replied with a stern look.

" _Po'shyol 'na hui..._ " ("Fuck off...")

Under normal circumstances, Eliza's response is to throw her notebook at the loudest joker in the room. But right now, the only thing she can do is to laugh at herself. Goddamn, she never thought she'd stoop down to self-deprecation, which is yet another first in her time with this international taskforce. Fortunately for her, Baker was dead serious on getting an explanation about her uncharacteristically lackluster performance, rather than join the laughter.

"Well?" He asked.

"I… took a risk sir." She told the truth, "Me and Jordan had 30 seconds left on the clock, so I figured we had to... strike at once-"

"And 'fuck slow and easy'…" Baker retorted. "Was that right?"

Eliza was shocked to learn that the old man was actually listening to the comms the whole time. But the weight of his words meant that it's her impulsiveness, and not the profanity, that needed reprimanding. It's what she'd do, anyway.

"It won't happen again sir…"

"You fucking make sure it won't. You're lucky this is a simulation, lass; if you did this in the field, we will rotate you out of the roster."

Right after he spoke, the laughter in the room immediately stopped. They know that screw-ups like this are one of Baker's many triggers. He also had a good point, Eliza should know how to control herself more often, before such a 'mistake' leads to disaster.

"That also goes to the rest of you lot." He continued, this time with a stronger voice. "I'm sure I'm not the only who hates this VR buggery. If I had it my way, all of you will be at the killhouse with rubber bullets and live flashbangs!"

Yet another shock came to Eliza. Not only did she learn that the old man despised VR like she did, but also his 'ideal' training scenario actually involves things that can kill them. This codger really is as hardcore as the Brits of the team make him up to be.

"...But we go through these fucking simulations anyway to see how you go up against real professionals! Our enemy aren't run-of-the-mill thugs with a manifesto, ladies and gentlemen, they are highly-trained and very dangerous, just like you!"

Those words gave everyone pause, replacing their jolly mood completely. As Eliza can attest, 'highly-trained' and 'very dangerous' are fitting descriptions indeed to Rainbow's newest enemy. Markie's still working on identifying who they really are.

"So, for your sakes..." Baker continued, "I need you to take these trainings seriously, clear?"

"Yes sir!" the team replied in unison.

"Right then. Let me finish with this list. We still have a few more rounds to go before lunch..."

Eliza breathed a sigh of relief. At least that's over.

* * *

...

One minute and thirty seconds in, she found herself again in the same rustic hallway, with Jordan close behind. As before, they slipped through Orange Team's defenses undetected, though they did have to be extra careful with Tina's computer-generated Welcome Mats, which were deployed sporadically throughout the compound. Eliza knew this was her chance at redemption, and this time she had a plan in motion. As soon as her breaching round goes off, her partner will detonate the breaching charge he already planted at the other Balsa wall of the room where Ms. Mustermann was kept. An attack with a diversionary explosion, there won't be any more fuckups.

"Stay clear of the blast!" she called out as she fired her M120.

The same distinctive explosion came after, accompanied by another loud report of the breach charge in the other wall. Adrenaline flooded Eliza's bloodstream as she rushed the breach with her R-4C at the ready. Upon reaching the hole, Jordan immediately threw a flashbang in.

*Boom!*

The pair wasted no time getting through the ingress, immediately identifying Tina and Meghan who were blinded by the flash. Poor bitches, Eliza thought; they didn't expect the two FBI agents to attempt the same assault tactic twice. She wasted no time double-tapping them in the chest, as she kept her eyes peeled for other targets. To her relief, there was nobody there except for-

*Bang!*

"Hostage KIA. Mission failed."

She froze up again when she saw the digitized woman crumple in the floor. Who the hell took that shot?! It came from behind...

"Shit. My bad." Jordan replied in a hushed tone.

There was smoke coming out from her partner's shotgun. That was enough to drive the hotheaded woman over the edge.

"GODDAMMIT TRACE!", she screamed at him.

He didn't say anything, save from a brief chuckle from his lips. Deep inside, however, Eliza was also laughing. This is getting fun.

* * *

 **Author's Comments/Notes:** I wanted to experiment with Ash's story a bit, bringing in elements of R6 Siege's multiplayer, the patch changes, and the antics I've seen from my matches. This is also the first time I tried my hand describing action scenes, so I hope you liked them!


	7. Chapter 7 - Blitz

**IMPORTANT:** I've re-uploaded the previous chapters of this series to better comply with the site's submission guidelines. Thank you for your reviews/follows, but I hope you can extend the same courtesy to this story as well.

* * *

 **Elias "Blitz"** **Kötz**

* * *

Midday in RAF Credenhill.

It's that time of the day again for the troops to mingle and rub elbows with each other at the mess hall. But while Rainbow tries to minimize the socializing as courtesy to the 22nd SAS 'landlords', some guys like Elias go on to hobnob with their comrades anyway. And any table he sits in is usually where most of the laughter comes from.

"…Monika vas down on the floor, right? So I ran to her from ze other hallway as fast as I could. Vhen she saw me coming, she screamed 'No! No! Don't come for me!'…"

Not everyone in the VR room saw it happen. All the more reason for him to tell this story.

"…Then I heard a beeping to my left. I turned around, the C4 vas already mid-air. BOOM! …Meg got me again…"

It was also the third time he was 'killed' in that manner, the electric jolts from the strobes ran throughout his body like wildfire. While it is infuriating to be that frigging frogwoman's favorite victim, Elias now knows who to choose as his star player, if and when the whole team got together for a friendly game of basketball. Or baseball. Or rugby. Or whatever sport that involves throwing things at other people.

"…Then Monika yelled at my corpse, 'I said don't come for me you idiot!' …Then *splat* Meg shot her in the face…"

Everyone at the table laughed, imagining what she looked like when she got her computer-simulated head blown off by a computer-simulated shotgun. It's not that they hate her guts or anything; they just find it funny every time the hardass IQ is roped into something she can't fix or escape from. She seriously needs to lighten up and enjoy everyone's company more often.

Elias has been doing just that since this taskforce was reactivated months ago; his time with KFOR made it easier for him to befriend foreigners. Rainbow has been good so far, at least better than how his tour of duty in Kosovo treated him. Where to start? RPGs, mortar fire, widespread arson, grisly murders, the occasional ambush, or a combination thereof were his day-to-day routine. And the downtimes were dull to boot. 12 o'clock at the security outpost in Orahovac is more or less the same as a 12 o'clock at the battalion HQ at Prizren: nothing but Germans to spend lunchtime with.

Now, more than ten years later, Elias finds himself at a British Royal Air Force base, sharing a table with an FBI agent, the 'darling' of the French Gendarmerie, and an ex-undercover cop from Berlin.

"Wait… you think she likes you now just because she called you an idiot?" Emma asked as she sipped her tea.

Once again, the topic today is the 'thing' going on between him and Monika. Strangely enough, the former does absolutely nothing to dispel the rumors since they started making the rounds weeks ago.

"All couples do that, _ja_?"

The Frenchwoman shook her head.

" _Mon Dieu_. For a 'people person', you really need to get out more, sir…"

"Just find someone else, brother..." Miles spoke while slicing a piece of steak. "...Who knows, maybe you have a better shot with the new girl joining us today."

"Huh? Who?" Elias asked.

Miles paused from eating his food to take out something from his back pocket. He then set it on the table for everyone to see: a mugshot of a fair-skinned woman with black hair, green eyes, and a mean-looking face. 'Taina Pereira' and 'BOPE' were written on the bottom of the picture.

"I got that from Jack. He's gonna take her psych eval today with the other new guy."

So, these were the people Mark and Meghan talked about the other day: the Special Operations Battalion of Rio de Janeiro's Military Police. If the BOPE recruits are arriving today, then it won't be long before the other new bloods that Six and Baker are eyeing on can join the team as well.

"*whistles* _Sie ist_ _schön_ _..._ " ("She's hot...") Dominic commented.

Miles shook his head and let out a brief chuckle.

"Actually, Jack said she's a high-functioning sociopath. And a knife nut. How's that for a one night stand, Dom?"

"Pfft. I've had vorse..."

That statement gave Elias goosebumps. During the four years he worked undercover for GSG 9, the Berliner had his fair share of flings, mostly to maintain the masquerade of a scruffy alpha male typical of a Hell's Angel. Most of Dominic's 'liaisons' were crazy, feisty crackheads that only the sickest perverts would share a bed with. To think that he survived unscathed and unaffected being with these women, it was a testament to both his strength of character and his borderline sociopathy.

"What about you Eli? You think she's a keeper?"

The other German simply shrugged. Almost everyone in the mess hall knew he already had someone else in mind.

" _Nein_. I'm good."

He turned to Monika's direction, who was sitting a few tables away from them. Some of the Blue Team members, notably Seamus, Lizzy, and Jordan were at her table as well, either eating their meals or jotting down notes with her. Elias couldn't hear what they're talking about, but it looked like they were discussing their performance in the simulations this morning. It's a reasonable guess; she may not be team leader material, but she does have a grasp on strategy and small-unit tactics. And she always makes sure that everyone in the room at least listens to her inputs before they do anything else.

It's captivating to see her at work. Her blonde ponytail gives her a professional look, which is also kind of cute for some reason. At least, for a woman her age.

"Persistent, aren't ya?" Miles smirked, who noticed Elias's longing gaze.

"Of course he is." Dominic patted his shoulder, "After Hamburg I still think he has a chance."

Emma stopped chewing her toast to join in.

"Yeah, you guys never really told me about that thing."

That's because her transfer papers were still being processed in Washington when the Port of Hamburg was attacked. That was five months ago, give or take.

"Vhat's there to tell?" Elias started. "A bunch of psychos seized the port authority building on a Sunday. They had a bomb, so vee shot them all dead. Mission accomplished."

He was careful not to disclose key details about what happened. Rainbow's first mission was actually a complete mess. In fact, only Elias and the other Germans went in because they were closest to the scene; at the time they were not yet officially discharged from GSG 9. Nonetheless, it was a miracle none of them got killed, considering that almost a thousand rounds were fired by the belligerents during the action. Of course, nobody in Rainbow anticipated that the masked bastards they faced would launch an attack at Côte d'Ivoire, few months later.

"That's all? You left out the part vhere you took a bullet for Weiss…" Dominic spoke.

"I vas simply doing my job! I'm the first one in, so I'm supposed to be the first _dummkopf_ shot…"

Miles and Emma chuckled at his lame excuse. But it's the truth. No bravado is necessary. Shielding his friends from danger is all in the day's work for him. And he would've done the same thing even if someone other than Monika was on the receiving end of a 5.56mm round. Besides, why bother with heavy body armor if you won't use it? But for other people, the idea of a man shielding a lady from a bullet is straight out of a bad romance novel. Hence, the rumors.

"Hmm… That is _such_ a turn on, come to think of it..." Emma smiled, teasingly.

Miles shrugged. "Well, better you than let a perfect ass like that go to waste, right Eli?"

Right then, Elias dropped the smile on his face; the American's words unknowingly hit a snag in his chest. He didn't want to be reminded about the harsh truth, which Elias has been pondering for quite a while now. Everyone knows that Monika is a very valuable asset to Rainbow, perhaps more so than some guys will ever be. Her education and natural aptitude firmly secured her place in the team. Rainbow will always need her at her best and she cannot afford to have anything slowing her down. That includes relationships; therefore, Elias's efforts to get closer to her are ultimately in vain.

But of course, that's not what his current audience wanted to hear.

"All I'm saying ist that I am more expendable, _ja_? She has a PhD, a patent, a consulting license…"

Not to mention the brain of a genius, he didn't add. Seriously, who else would have come up with a practical _and_ cost-effective method to detect electrical signals in real space and translate them into useful data? The RED Spectre became a godsend for airports, EOD techs, and police officers everywhere. Sure, a lot of other people built upon Monika's brainchild, but she nonetheless laid the foundation. Creating that device, which made the world a little bit safer, is definitely admirable. It is perhaps the biggest reason why Elias was attracted to her in the first place.

And yet what is he, compared to her? He didn't go to America to get his college degree. He didn't volunteer for Iraq to protect the German embassy in Baghdad. Heck, Emma has more balls than him, venturing into Chad to help refugees and face the horrors of ethnic cleansing firsthand. He, on the other hand, could count his meager contributions to make the world a better place in one hand.

And then there's Monika's high standards for men. He's not even sure if he made a good impression on her mother in Leipzig yesterday. The shirt, the Oakleys, and the BMW may have been too much.

"…Me? I just trained a few guys in India. That's it.", he continued.

Dominic rolled his eyes. He heard his self-deprecating tirades a million times before. Leaving out his KFOR days from his accomplishments was also getting old; nobody in their right mind would regard those as 'mere public service'.

He told Elias, " _Verkauf dich nicht_ so _unter Wert_." (Don't sell yourself short like that.)

Emma seemed to have gotten the message as well, even with the language barrier.

"So you're just going to give up? What if _m_ _onsieur_ Brunsmeier here decides to ask her out?"

The answer was pretty obvious.

"She'll love him. He did drugs. He sold drugs. Und he killed a dealer by drugging him to death. Bad. Ass."

That joke caused Dominic to quickly recoil from his seat. While he'll never tell anyone what he really did in Hannover, drug overdose is such a terrible way to kill someone. He has issues, sure, but he's not _that_ messed up.

"Woah! That vas not how he died, okay?" he defended.

"Oooh, so what did you do, Dom? Care to share any details?" Miles asked with a smile. Finally, someone got the spook to slip his tongue.

"I… ugh… Fuck you all."

Everyone laughed at his response, louder this time around, much to the curiosity of the other troopers in the mess hall. The levity was back. Elias much preferred these moments than having to think about his issues. He may have just earned himself a 'foot massage' from Dominic's jury-rigged shock wire later today, but it was worth it. When the glee died down, Miles continued.

"Anyway… There's still the shooting range at 2 o'clock, Eli. Maybe that's another chance for you to impress Miss Moni over there."

That brought a frown to the German's face. How the hell's that going to work?

"Vhat do you want me to do? Assemble her gun? Fetch her ammo? Run around as live target practice?"

"Shit, I dunno man. Use your imagination."

Emma laughed again. She probably finds it ridiculous to see a battle-hardened counter-terrorism expert still have dating problems. But _it is_ ridiculous, come to think of it. Elias would laugh at himself if he wanted to.

"Just be yourself." The Frenchwoman smiled. "You two practice together, talk a little… enjoy the little moments."

"Heh. I'm not sure how that could help me."

"Look, you've been her training partner for a while now, right?" She went on. "Isn't it obvious that she enjoys your company?"

Elias never thought about it that way. Setting down his food, he had a contemplative look on his face as he listened to her.

"…And I think she doesn't care about your resume either. What matters is that you're in Rainbow..."

He reflected upon the last few months he had with Monika. And in hindsight, those months were more fruitful than he thought. The meetings. The combat drills. The nights at the SAS pub. That drinking contest in Promenaden. She seemed fine being with him. Was he so focused on his jittery and self-doubt all this time that he failed to realize that she has not yet turned him away? Did he seriously think that the little things he did for her mattered just as little?

He smiled at the epiphany. Perhaps he did have a chance at her after all.

"…I say, you've done well so far. Just keep them up!"

"Yeah. And when you two lovebirds finally… get it on, try not to knock her up will ya?" Miles joked.

Another round of laughs. Admittedly, the thought came to mind once or twice, but Elias was steadfast in preventing that from happening. He'll never sully Monika's reputation. And just like that, it dawned on him that his juvenile self is _truly_ dead- nothing left but a man who wants his budding relationship to be serious and meaningful. Damn, time flies so fast.

Just as everyone continued with their meals, Baker and Mark suddenly entered the mess hall. It's quite hard to miss the sound of their footsteps. When Elias turned around, he found the two SAS troopers flanked by a man and a woman, carrying duffel bags and donning plain black shirts and trousers.

"Ladies and gents, yer attention please?" The old man spoke in a commanding voice.

The team immediately stopped whatever they were doing and turned to him. The new recruits have arrived.

"I'd like you to welcome Captain Vicente Souza…" Baker motioned to his left.

The tall man was dark-skinned, grizzled, and well-built. He looked intimidating, made more so by the grim, black eye-patch that graced the left side of his face. The greying hair also hinted his seniority; Elias pegged him to be in his 50s. Yet, the man smiled politely and waved his hand when Baker mentioned his name. He seemed like a genuinely pleasant, cheery sort.

" …and Officer Taina Pereira of Rio's Police Special Operations Battalion…"

The picture Miles showed them earlier definitely checked out. But in person, she had a different vibe. She didn't smile or wave, she just nodded her head nonchalantly when Baker introduced her. She also had the eyes of a killer, Elias noted, like the insurgents he fought against in Kosovo all those years ago. It was deeply unsettling. Dear God, Jack is going to have one hell of a time later.

"…They'll be joinin' us at the range today. Let's give 'em a proper welcome later, yeah?"

"Yes sir!" Rainbow replied in unison.

Dominic turned to Elias. He was also disconcerted about the new girl.

" _Nun_ , _was hältst du von ihr_?" ("Well, what do you think of her?")

Rather than reply to his question, the other German simply turned to Monika's direction. She remained calm and dignified; unfazed by the intimidating woman by the door. Definitely a keeper. No matter what happens, he's in good hands.

" _Das ist mir egal_ _, alter._ _Mir geht's gut_." ("I don't care, bro. I'm good.")

* * *

 **Author's Notes/Comments** : People have been asking me to write about Blitz, so here he is. I hope I did him justice though; shipping's not actually my forte (lol). And as you may have guessed, I'm going to write about Caveira next. Stay tuned!


	8. Chapter 8 - Caveira

**.**

* * *

 **Taina "Caveira" Pereira**

* * *

*SMACK!*

The punch struck her jaw, strong enough to bring her flat on her back. For a split-second, her vision went as dark as the starless, midnight sky above. She was shocked at the turn of events. She didn't expect the large, curly-haired man to hit her at the drop of a hat.

" _Cadê!?"_ ("Where is it!?") he shouted.

Taina was still woozy from the blow. Her reflexes immediately told her to grab the switchblade she tucked in her belt and go straight for his jugular. But the odds were stacked against her: the man had three others with him, totting guns. Unless she wanted to meet her father in the afterlife so soon, the smartest move was to do nothing. She gritted her teeth in defiance; she always hated being powerless.

" _Cadê o dinheiro_!?" ("Where's the money!?") the man shouted again.

She should've seen this coming. Her friends warned her about working with Felpa, a big-time ringleader able to get his hands on all sorts of hot contraband. But she went with it anyway out of desperation. And robbing the internet café in the wee hours seemed an easy enough score for a 17-year-old. He takes 70, she takes 30, everybody wins. But then, she had the gall to haggle for a bigger cut. Perhaps that's where she went wrong. She should've known that his nod of approval was a feint; the man absolutely despised it when his lackeys tried to weasel him out on his profits.

*SMACK!*

The next hit was strong enough to cut her lip. She really felt the pain this time.

" _CADÊ O DINHEIRO!?"_

As she regained her composure, she saw her boss draw his revolver and point it at her temple. Her eyes widening and her heart racing in panic, Taina began to frantically search for someone, anyone, in the streets. There must be a kind soul willing to help her out. But alas, nobody is in sight. Even the cops supposed to be on patrol tonight are nowhere to be found. The realization came as steadily as the pain in her jaw: she's all alone.

At that moment, she wanted to cry. She wanted to tell him where she hid the bag. Instead, her despair and fear gave way to a boiling sensation in her chest. As Taina lay on the ground, her hands clenched into fists. As her head ached, her mind focused on the one man. While tears formed in her eyes, they also began to take in all the details in front of her. Felpa had curly hair, an imposing build, and a smug, bearded face: she'll remember this image.

She'll remember this night. She'll remember his name.

...

* * *

It has been twenty minutes since the interview started.

"I see." The psychiatrist spoke in a deep voice, "You're lucky the judge gave you a second chance."

A lifetime has passed since that night, so Taina tried to recall the events as best she could. In the end, her boss got his money and left her empty-handed. Bruised and penniless, she went out of her way to rob a convenience store the following day, all by herself. It was a foolish move. She brought out her knife, grabbed the cash, and ran outside, totally unaware that a pair of cops were on patrol that morning. The rest was history.

"My crimes are a matter of public record, sir."

Her voice was calm all throughout the session, as she needed to remain neutral about her past. On the other hand, she's impressed by how much her English has improved.

"Do you regret them?"

"I'm not proud of them, if that's what you're asking." Taina politely replied. "But I'd rather not forget them either. They are… a part of me."

With that, the psychiatrist nodded and leaned back on his chair, his hand still clutching the folder donning her name. It was an ample opportunity for the female recruit to relax as well.

The man in front of her was Jack Estrada. Tucked at the far end of the 2nd floor hallway of Building A, RAF Credenhill, his 'office' was a tiny space in the operations room reserved for the Americans of the unit. Taina imagined that on a normal day, the entire section would be busy with phone calls, photocopiers, and computers, reminiscent of the Battalion headquarters' office wing in Rio. But the building is mostly-empty today, mainly because the other Rainbow troopers are in Building C's armory, prepping for the shooting exercise. And as for _Senhor_ Estrada, he was asked to conduct a psychological evaluation of the new recruits from Brazil. Typical desk job. It seemed that not even an international counter-terrorism taskforce was immune from paperwork.

"I have to say I'm impressed, Ms. Pereira." Jack spoke again, "Not everyone would openly admit to their criminal history."

Taina smiled in reply, though it's only for show. The 14-hour flight from Rio de Janeiro–Galeão to Birmingham Airport was bad enough to sour her mood, now she had to open up her personal life to a total stranger. And to be completely honest with herself, a part of her wanted to grab the man's pencil and stab him in the eye, if that was the only way to free herself from his pointless prying. But she shook the thought away and kept her cool. It's her first day on her new job, with a new team, in a new country. First impressions and all that. She also reminded herself of her good fortune to see England. Not a lot of street rats in Rio could say the same.

"How did BOPE react to it? You being a former cut-purse, I mean…"

"They didn't mind. _Caveiras_ (Skulls) only care about getting the job done, nothing more."

They gave her a warm welcome, that is to say they treated her like crap during the Special Operations Course. She'll never forget those six weeks in the jungle. One night, the instructor made her hold a live hand grenade _before_ he pulled the pin: a punishment for sleeping in class. But then again, the other greenhorns were subjected to the same level of treatment. She was lucky. The _Caveiras_ didn't single her out like the corrupt cops who made the mistake of signing up for the Course, thinking it would clear their name. None of them made it to the finals.

"You experienced kinship then." Jack commented. "Was that also the reason you adopted their nickname as your own?"

That question hit a little too close to home. Taina was getting annoyed.

"Why keep asking these things?" she inquired. "Aren't you supposed give me a Rorschach test or something?"

The fact that she had to go through yet another psychological evaluation irritated her as well. There's no doubt that Rainbow's superiors saw Colonel Renan's notes on her. She had a rough life. She slept with an empty belly more times than she could count. She had to learn how to use a knife to survive the streets. Do they honestly think she'll be sane after all that? It's not her fault why she acts like she does. And unlike the people she cut or shot, she'd never hurt an innocent person just because she could.

Jack sat upright. It appeared her question was equally uncomfortable.

"Actually, I'm not allowed to do that even if I wanted to." he smiled back, a bit embarrassed. "I'm not a licensed psychiatrist."

That was quite the shock. She assumed that she was going to a therapist when that old Englishman briefed her about the psychological evaluation she'll get at the base. This guy certainly piqued her interest.

"Really?"

"Mmhm. I was a SWAT negotiator. Four years."

"So where did you study?"

"Purdue. Forensics, Mastered in Biometrics…" Jack continued, "…But I did take several courses in psychology. So _apparently,_ I'm the closest the team has to a shrink."

That sounded sloppy, even for her. Though the pay was a drop in the bucket, at least BOPE was well-staffed with the right medical experts from the Military Police. It could be that this 'Team Rainbow' was fast-tracking its recruitment drive, leaving its other support roles sorely lacking. Well, at least that's the most logical explanation Taina can come up with it. She doesn't actually care how the higher-ups think or how the gears turn. All that matters is that they point her to the right people that needed to die.

Nonetheless, it's intriguing what another 'expert' thinks about her psyche. Since the other psychiatrists in Rio couldn't figure her out, perhaps an outsider would have a more entertaining answer.

"So what's your assessment of me?"

Jack remained calm in response, much to her disappointment, as he sifted through her papers again. This time, he stopped at the page that contained a few pictures of the Brazilian woman's mission photos. Black fatigues, blood stains, and scary-looking makeup where the prevailing themes in the images.

"You're a curious case." The 'psychiatrist' replied matter-of-factly. "In the field, you wear a skull face paint. You show no compunction in torturing suspects. You use your knife more often than any cop should…"

He turned to the next page. After glancing on it, he looked at her again.

"…But no civilian or friendly casualties to your name. You are quick to learn about weapons, CQC, interrogation techniques, English… You didn't even break eye contact since we started talking. A sign of confidence."

"And?" she asked with a smile.

Rather than respond to her question, Jack simply set the paper-laden folder down. Once again, the icy stillness dominated the tiny cubicle as a few seconds of dead air passed. The BOPE commando can't help but be amazed by this man's composure. Other people showed signs of discomfort when they reached this point at a conversation with her. Meanwhile, the American only took her verbal jabs in stride. He then clasped his hands.

"Tell me, Ms. Pereira. What happened to this 'Felpa' character?"

Her eyes widened at that question. Who the hell placed that note in her papers? Was it the Captain?

"You met him again in November 2010. Complexo do Alemão. Am I right?"

...

* * *

" _Por favor! Por favor! Não me mata!"_ ("Please! Please! Don't kill me!") he begged.

The morning air reeked with gunpowder and smoke as automatic fire rang throughout the streets. The assault at the Complex was well underway. While the Marines and the rest of BOPE advanced through the favela, Captain Souza and his team were in a narrow alley, with a principal suspect in custody. Felpa was flat on his belly, pinned to the pavement by a skull-faced woman. At least five guns were pointed at him.

The perp was having the mother of all living nightmares. Aside from punches and kicks, the _Caveiras_ also gave him the 'bag treatment' twice. Taina, on the other hand, was having a blast; she waited years for this. Hearing the mighty top dog plead for his life was cathartic. But rather than relish the moment, she quickly reminded herself that she's on a mission. The grilling continued.

" _Cadê as armas_!" ("Where are the guns!?") she shouted into his ear.

" _Eu não sei!"_ ("I don't know!")

*SMACK!*

She bashed his temple again with her handgun, just like she was taught. Nobody in the team bought his lies: the scumbag personally oversaw the delivery of the stolen rifles to the Complex last week, of course he knew where they were. But Taina didn't care about that. She seriously wanted to shoot his other kneecap.

 _"*laughs*_ _Esta é a última chance_ _, palhaço!_ " ("This is your last chance, clown!")

She placed the smoking gun on his head and cocked the hammer. It was enough to break his will.

" _OK! OK!_ _Vou falar! Vou falar!"_ ("I'll talk! I'll talk!"), he sobbed.

Taina smiled wickedly. It was the perfect revenge: even if he lived by the day's end, the poor bastard would be crippled for life. But she needed more. He couldn't see her visage behind the face paint. She wanted to gloat to him who his captor was. She wanted to show him the face of that girl he beat up one night for a few measly bucks. She wanted her smile to be the last thing he'll ever see. In a fit of controlled rage, she readied her pistol again.

"Pereira!" Captain Souza called to her in a loud voice.

Turning around with a killer's gaze, Taina looked at her commander. His one good eye told her to stand down. But she did not care. Her finger was about to pull the trigger.

"PEREIRA!" he shouted again.

* * *

"…"

It was the first time she told anyone outside of the Battalion about it. But despite the gritty details, Jack remained keen on listening.

"You… didn't kill him? I'm impressed."

"It…he wasn't the objective."

The guns would've killed dozens of cops, soldiers, and bystanders if they weren't recovered. As messed up as she was, Taina agreed that seizing the weapons was her team's first priority.

But she wanted to laugh. The assault was a win-win for everyone, except herself. The politicians looked good at the media and the poor had fewer criminals to worry about, at least for a while. She, on the other hand, got a reprimand from the Colonel and a two-day suspension. Though Captain Souza begged their boss to bring her back sooner, the victory remained hollow for some reason.

"I should've..." she confessed, "I wanted to shoot Felpa. Badly."

"But you put the mission first." Jack retorted, "I guess that doesn't make you a complete sociopath, right?"

His words were followed by a reassuring smile. She returned the favor, genuinely this time, much to her surprise. It was a rare occurrence for her to be praised by anyone.

Jack then proceeded to scribble a note and appended to her file, presumably his findings after spending half an hour talking about her life. Taina could only guess if the results of their little chat would have repercussions later, but it was safe to assume she's in the clear for now. Later, the American man stamped her folder with red ink.

"Like I said, you're a curious case..." He continued, "…But I think we can keep you."

A sigh of relief escaped her lips. Now that she passed this test, it was time to join the others for target practice. Maybe she'll also have a chance to talk with Captain Souza for that note. As she pondered these things, Jack brought out a small piece from his desk drawer and handed it to her. It was some sort of business card.

"What's this?", she asked.

"That guy is a British Army psychiatrist. You know, in case you need to visit a _real_ shrink."

She couldn't decide if she should be insulted or be indebted.

"Taking care of your own, _Senhor_ Estrada?"

"That's what we do, miss. Welcome to Rainbow."

Jack offered his hand. That was all Taina needed to know that he's good in her books.

"And…try not to stab us in our sleep, okay?", he joked.

"Heh. No promises.", she grinned as she accepted his hand with a firm grip.

'Jack Estrada'. That's the first new name she'll remember today.

* * *

 **Author's Notes/Comments:** After playing as Caveira a fair number of times, I realized it'd be difficult to make her sympathetic. I mean, she sounded like she _really_ enjoyed hurting people and her bio wasn't any better. But I still think there's some goodness in her. She wouldn't be in Rainbow otherwise. Anyway, I hope you liked this one! I shamelessly referenced the Tropa de Elite movies (2007 and 2010) in this story as well, in case you haven't noticed. Next up, Thatcher! :)


	9. Chapter 9 - Thatcher

**.**

* * *

 **Michael "Thatcher" Baker**

* * *

Time has a nasty habit of changing one's perspective. When Baker was a boy, he used to count the days until Christmas with earnest anticipation. He always enjoyed plum puddings, mince pies, and presents with his mum and dad, and thus the long yearly wait for December was a restless one. But as age slowly caught on, Christmas turned into a trivial matter, like a great many things. Holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, reunions. Now they are nothing more than milestones, tirelessly reminding him each year how close he is to finally meeting his Maker.

But the concept of death doesn't frighten him anymore, not like when he was wet behind the ears. Time has taught Baker that whether he likes or not, his end will come someday, either in bed or in the field. He can at least take heart in the fact that he already lived a full life. He built a wonderful family: a wife, a loving daughter, a couple of wily grandsons in Gloucestershire. He served his country for more than three decades, and he could retire from the Army anytime he wanted. He had the honor of leading good soldiers so many times that his latest position as overall field commander of Rainbow is, admittedly, just another chapter in his 'illustrious' career.

Yet, Time loves to keep him on his toes. Three wars, dozens of ops, and a Military Medal later, he's still alive and none the worse for wear. Meanwhile, hundreds of young men and women, those who have yet to truly enjoy their lives, have died in Her Majesty's service. And rather than prepare for his own funeral, the old man spends more time attending someone else's instead. Like today, for example. Once again, he's in a cemetery, joining hundreds of other people in paying their last respects to a fallen Para. The dreary morning matched the mood.

"Fire!"

The sergeant's command was followed by a quick volley from more than a dozen L85s pointed at the sky. He and the other members of 2 PARA are wearing their khaki uniforms and maroon berets, while Baker is in a simple black suit and tie like the rest of the crowd. Just a few days ago, he was at Hereford, hundreds of kilometers away, teaching a pair of Brazilian cops about Rainbow's operational protocols. Today, he's in the East Midlands, honoring a personal pledge he made to his old battalion, to join them in their happiest days and their saddest moments as much as he can, even incognito.

To leave his post is the least Baker can do for 2 PARA. They gave him his first friends in the Army and taught him, rather too well, the value of discipline, honor, and brotherhood. He'd only been with the battalion for a year before he joined the SAS in 1980, and his choice to leave for Selection was a divisive one. But he nonetheless kept close ties with his comrades, even after his 'debut' in Operation Nimrod. And when Baker heard that they were being sent to the Falklands two years later, he begged his captain to let him join the SAS squadron bound for the islands as well.

"Reload...Ready...Fire!"

Another volley was set loose as faint sobs began to surround Baker. The pain of losing a loved one or a brother-in-arms is not alien to him. He remember being devastated when he learned a couple of his mates in 2 PARA were killed in the daring charge against the Argentine positions at Goose Green. Today's funeral only reminded him of the rest of the chaps he'd lost since. Iraq, Northern Ireland, Kosovo, Afghanistan. He bowed his head in solemn respect, remembering where they died.

"Reload...Ready...Fire!"

If only he felt the same for the ginger-haired lad being laid to rest this morning. According to the other Paras, the young Lance Corporal had passed away last week, losing his four-year battle against the wounds he sustained in Helmand. Baker didn't know him personally, but the details of his demise were nonetheless familiar; 'the patrol walked into an IED' was a story the old man had heard many times before. It's a nasty way to go: living in intensive care, missing four Christmases, clinging to hope for a normal life again, only to succumb in the end...

But this is a risk all servicemen face. And after 30 years fighting across the world, Baker has gotten used to the shadow of death hovering over his comrades, his men, and himself. If anything, he's actually furious that despite state-of-the-art technologies at their side, Her Majesty's brave soldiers are still maimed or killed on a regular basis. Such is the current state of affairs it seems; today's world is so full of unknowns that not even the best computers can calculate them all. The 'enemy', for example, is an unknown variable. Gone are the days where battlelines are plotted on the map. The enemy doesn't have to wear a uniform to fight. He could be a nation, a group, or even a single individual. He only needs proper motivation and resources to strike back. And not even a missile-laden Reaper drone or a GPS satellite is enough to stop him, as the old man tirelessly preached.

Bloody hell, he said in his mind. The 'enemy' he just described perfectly matched Rainbow's current target. Three terrorist attacks, yet the team still doesn't know the identities of the masked bastards it has been facing these past few months. If Markie, Meghan, and the other boffins don't crack the case soon, it's only a matter of time before one of Rainbow meets their end.

"Present...arms!"

Heeding the sergeant's command, the Paras held their rifles in front of their bodies and stood at attention. A few seconds of silence set in, soon broken by the bugle's rendition of the Last Post. Then, the playing of bagpipes. It was here when crowd sobbed even more; only the soldiers didn't have wet eyes.

...

After the coffin was laid onto the earth, the crowd dispersed. A few people remained to share their condolences to the fallen soldier's family. But Baker didn't stay, much to his own disappointment. Time is scarce and he's already needed elsewhere.

As he walked the cemetery's stone path leading to the gate, he pondered about Rainbow's state of readiness. With Nizan still out of action from his leg injury and the new recruits from BOPE, Rainbow has an operational strength of about 25 troopers ready at a moment's notice- 40 if he counted the SAS and SFSG reserves recently seconded to the team. The J-SAT operatives and the rest of the recruits are still processing their transfer papers, but they could join the team by next week or so. And with other countries renewing their commitment to the cause, it seems that Rainbow is set on becoming a bloody circus within a month.

But despite the manpower, Rainbow still struggles with responding posthaste to terrorist attacks. Three successful operations should indicate otherwise, but Baker believes that the team's sterling record was mostly due to luck. Hamburg, the team's first mission, would have been a fiasco if Streicher and his mates weren't in Potsdam when the attack occurred. Abidjan, meanwhile, was a logistical nightmare since Jenson's team had to ride a Blackhawk from Credenhill all the way to the Ivory Coast. Thank God the Yanks had lent them a Globemaster, otherwise the helo would've ran out of fuel even before it even crossed the Atlantic. Then there's London, which was just a short trip away from the base. Putting the pieces together, Baker realized that the team still needed more hardware. Perhaps 2 PARA can help him convince the RAF to lease even one Airbus Atlas for long range deployments?

His train of thought suddenly stopped when he reached the gate. Outside, there were three men dressed in long-sleeved collared shirts, waiting for him beside a grey Vauxhall Astra. Trooper Chandar, Sergeant Cowden, and Sergeant Porter. It dawned on Baker that it was time to return to reality.

"You okay sir?" Mark called out.

"Hmph. I'll feel better when we're outta' 'ere..."

The young man nodded and unlocked the car door with the press of his keys. Baker walked to them with a focused look, masking the mix of annoyance and pride he felt. For the fifth time, the missus sent these three to pick him up. He doesn't need a guard detail, for goodness's sake. But maybe this is Six's way of reminding him of his importance to the team.

"Back to your gaff (home) sir?", Seamus asked. "...Or the barracks?"

"The barracks _is_ my gaff, Sergeant." he smirked back.

The last man of the entourage chuckled at their exchange.

"Really Seamus, what kind of question is that, eh? You forgot this old fossil is a tourist attraction in Hereford?"

James Porter. "Smoke". While Baker has encountered his fair share of rowdy mavericks in the Paras and the SAS, Jimmy possibly takes the biscuit. Reckless and aggressive to a fault, the Londoner pathologically refuses to properly conduct himself. It's a wonder why he wasn't RTU'd from the Regiment, let alone dismissed from Rainbow. Perhaps his knowledge of chemicals and their practical application in the field is too invaluable for Six to kick him out. Time will tell if his antics inevitably leads to an early grave. Though, sometimes the old man is tempted to send the cheeky bastard on his merry way, especially when he makes fun of his age.

"James, my son, one of these days I'm goin' to shoot ya."

"Well… one more reason to keep my eye on you then, guv." Jimmy shrugged with a smile.

The four men shared a brief round of laughs before they entered the car. A few seconds later, they drove off, with Seamus behind the wheel and Jimmy riding shotgun. In the passenger seat, Baker settled in and resumed his thoughts about Rainbow's current issues. All matter of numbers, charts, and memos flooded his mind, as he sorted out priorities. Captain Souza was a major coup, since the team now has another combat trainer to rely on. More drills and exercises are always welcome, if only because they are the best way to minimize potential casualties in the field.

At this point, Baker's train of thought once again shifted to the young Para. The lad had friends, family, likely a girlfriend. He could've been no older than 25. The Paras are never sloppy in the field, their officers are always up to the task. And yet despite all the planning and precautions, this boy ended up dead. A full life never lived. The reality gives Baker a gnawing feeling inside his head, as if something is telling him that it's only a matter of time before the team suffers its first KIA. And when that time comes, he's not sure if he can stomach it.

Can he tell their parents with an honest face that their son or daughter died a hero? Can he tell their weeping children that their mom or dad are never coming home? He'd done it before in the SAS, he could do it again in Rainbow. And yet, the thought now makes him uneasy for some reason. Bloody hell, he's really getting too old for this.

"Sir." Mark broke the silence. "MI5 just sent us their latest threat projections this morning."

The old man didn't respond.

"...Sir?"

"...Hmm?" he turned to his left.

"I said MI5 just sent us their latest threat projections. You want to review them first, or you rather Valkyrie and I sift through them now?"

"Just... Leave 'em at my desk..."

The young man nodded, realizing that his commanding officer was not yet in the mood to talk business. The air suddenly became rather gloomy, and the three men acknowledged the fact without sharing words. With so many years together in the Regiment, they've learned to take the hint when the old man was up for a discussion and when he wanted to be left alone. But Jimmy, ever the loudmouth, always abhorred dull moments such as this. And so, when silence resumed in the car, he decided to break the ice again.

"I hate funerals." He spoke, "Everyone's all nice and friendly, 'specially the cunts who talk behind your back..."

Mark rolled his eyes at the appalling choice of topic.

"No need to talk behind your back, Sergeant. We all know you're a twit."

"Pfft. Whatever Markie. I won't be inviting you lot to my funeral, that's for sure. It's gonna be smashing!"

Not this again, Baker thought. Jimmy has always been rather too fond of his hogwash conversations. No doubt he'll just press on even if he's been told to shut his gob. But at least the cheeky bastard can always be counted to do that. One less 'unknown variable' to worry about.

"*sigh* Let me guess..." Seamus jabbed, not taking his eyes off the road. "…Something about lagers and crisps, aye?"

"Bloody right you are, my freakish friend! None of that gun salute and 'Last Post' nonsense. There'll be girls, pints, laughs… Nobody's gonna leave until they're properly pissed (drunk)!"

The two men chuckled at his rubbish. And for all his efforts to remain stoic, Baker couldn't help but join in as well. When it is Jimmy's turn to be put into the ground, the Regiment is going to skin him first for making this ridiculous suggestion.

"I'd rather we just leave your corpse to rot, James." the old man commented. "You'll do Mother Nature a proper good service as bug food."

"Ah so you _do_ have a heart, guv!" Jimmy exclaimed, totally not offended. "I was wonderin' if that pacemaker of yours is on the fritz…"

Laughter broke out again. To Baker's surprise, he found himself chuckling at yet another obvious stab at his age. Nobody ever dared to undermine him like that.

In his mind, Baker suddenly realized that _this_ is perhaps the reason why he feels uneasy. James, Markie, Seamus, Emma, Meghan, Elias, Eliza... he never had the honor of leading such a colorful cast of characters before. These young people could have had a prosperous and better future for themselves, yet they chose to throw their lot into serving their country and protecting the innocent. They truly are a different breed, and that's saying something after serving with other men of higher caliber. And if any of these boys and girls died without leaving their mark on the world, Baker will forever tear himself up for it.

No, he can't let that happen. He'll be damned if they get killed on his watch, yet he walked away unscathed. The time was nigh for a change in perspective, it seems. It was time for another personal pledge: to lead these younglings as best he can and bring _all of them_ back home, alive and well. From that moment on, Baker was set to do better. New training regimens, new tactics, better logistics, better hardware. His mind entertained all sorts of ideas he believed would make Rainbow better prepared for the next call. If he has to haggle, bribe, kiss someone else's bottom, or even cut ties with 2 PARA to get the team what they need, the old man is now up for it.

And if he has to die in their stead, he won't complain. He knows a fair trade when he sees one.

...

A few minutes into the trip, Mark's mobile phone rang. The young man was stunned to see the caller's name at the display screen.

"Sergeant Major?" he called, "I got the Deputy Director on Secure Channel 1."

"Put her on speakers." Baker ordered.

Obeying his command, he handed his phone to Jimmy, who then placed it on the car's dashboard mount. Not long after, an American woman spoke.

"Mike. Are you there?"

"Yes ma'am. We can all hear ya."

It's probably 5:00 AM in the US. Blimey this woman never sleeps, he said in his mind.

"Good." Six started, "Sorry to bug you, but I just got from a meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff at DC. They had new intel to share with us."

"Hmm. This better be interesting..."

"Trust me, Mike, it is." she continued, "But first I got to ask... how does the team feel about going to America?"

* * *

 **Author's notes/comments:** I like to believe that some members of Team Rainbow actually have children, but are not specified in their bio (for some reason). So, I took the liberty of making Thatcher a father and a grandfather, figuratively and literally, in addition to being a grizzled, veteran commander. Not sure about the rest of Rainbow though. Anyway, I also researched on British military stuff to help me write this chapter; I hope I got the details right (particularly the ranks). Thermite is up next, followed by Fuze! :)


	10. Chapter 10 - Thermite

.

* * *

 **Jordan "Thermite" Trace**

* * *

Captain Souza paused for a few seconds before he blew the whistle.

On cue, five shooters wearing safety goggles and ear muffs darted across their respective 50-meter lanes at the firing range. Their goal was to reach the tables on the opposite end, where their handguns rested. Jordan, uncharacteristically fired up and eager for a challenge this afternoon, ran with the other participants like an athlete; the Devil Dog in him demanded an excellent performance today. Unfortunately, speed was never his greatest strength. To his left, Taina was leading the pack by a few milliseconds, while Eliza kept pace with her whilst running a few lanes away. This is not just a pistol competency test; it is also an impromptu contest among Rainbow's best shooters. More than half of Rainbow sat in the sidelines, eyes watching.

Eight seconds in and barely sweating, Jordan was the fourth person to reach his table. He stumbled across an unloaded M45 and a couple of 7-round magazines, just like the other tables. Wasting no time, he methodically loaded his weapon, turned around, and aimed at the dummy target down the range. He quickly adopted a 'fighting stance': head leveled, knees flexed, and body leaning forward; his posture echoed the countless training exercises he received from the Corps and the Bureau. Paying no heed to the spectators and the other runners, Jordan pulled the trigger and fired off two shots.

*BANG! BANG!*

In the distance, the humanoid target produced puffs of dust and splinters as bullets hammered its top and mid-section. Briefly impressed by his accuracy, Jordan then ran ahead to the 30-meter mark, complying with the test mechanics. Upon reaching the spot, he aimed at the dummy and double-tapped it again.

*BANG! BANG!*

He chalked up two more chest hits. At this point, all of the shooters were doing the same steps; the sound of gunfire and boots shuffling along the gravel resonated throughout the range. Not a moment too soon, Jordan reached the 10-meter mark, crouched, and repeated the process. His bloodstream was filled with adrenaline, his focus was sharper than ever.

*BANG! BANG!*

This time, his first shot only grazed the target's left ear, but his second one bored into its fiberboard head. Despite the accomplishment, Jordan quickly shook off the self-congratulations, reminding himself that the clock was ticking.

"Okay. Here we go..." He whispered to himself.

The last leg of the test called for a walk-and-shoot. Keeping cool, Jordan reloaded his weapon, stood up, and steadily approached the lifeless dummy with his pistol drawn. Behind the tinted lenses of his goggles, the former Marine zeroed in on the dummy's head and chest, emptying his gun into these spots just like Basic Training in Pendleton. And before he knew it, his weapon clicked empty. Not a moment later, Captain Souza blew the whistle again, marking the end of the test.

"Time! Actions clear! Check your weapons!"

Hearing the order, Jordan lowered his pistol, pressed the magazine release, and pulled back the slide. The weapon was now safe and unloaded. A quick breath of air escaped from his lips as he let the adrenaline in his body subside. Meanwhile, cheers and faint applause erupted from the spectating Rainbow troopers, impressed at such a wonderful display of skill from their comrades.

"Alright…" Souza spoke again in an accented drawl, "…Let us see how you all did."

Audience members and participants alike went to their respective cliques, exchanging laughs and congratulations, while the one-eyed rangemaster examined each bullet-ridden dummy with the utmost attention to detail. The old man marked each bullet hole with blue ink, then glanced to his clipboard and jotted notes. The results of the test won't be released until tonight, so the five runners can pat themselves in the back with no worries. Rather than join and chat with his fellow competitors, however, Jordan simply holstered his M45 and made his way towards Eliza. Even without removing her prized Ray-Bans, it was clear she had a wonderful time. It wouldn't be a surprise if she aced this test, just like she did in Quantico many times before.

"Hey, Liz!" Jordan greeted her with a high five. "You got this in the bag?"

Eliza caught his palm with hers, but she replied with a strange look of disappointment.

"I dunno, Trace. I think Miss Smiley-Face over there was faster than me..."

Jordan looked at where she pointed at. Just a few meters away, the Brazilian woman was grinning rather smugly with her arms crossed. Captain Souza examined her target very thoroughly, all the while conversing with her in their native tongue. Jordan and Eliza were too far away to understand what they were talking about. But judging by the number of nods from the old man, and the smiles Taina made in response, it seemed that the young woman was the best performer this afternoon. The amicable look from the other Rainbow troopers present beside her only reinforced this assumption.

Not denying that she deserves the victory, but the girl doesn't know how to 'play nice'. In a different world, she'd have tons of dudes at her beck and call, what with her body and all that. At the very least, Taina didn't wear her creepy facepaint in training today, so that's a start. Most of the guys think she's actually pretty, Jordan included, as much as he doesn't want to admit it.

"Ah, chin up." he tried to lift Eliza's spirits, "Wait for the scores. Maybe your streak is still intact."

Second place obviously doesn't sit well with her, especially when she's in the mood to compete and give her best effort this afternoon. She'd be fine if it was someone like Tim, Monika, or any of the 'older' guys who bested her. But the frigging new girl?

"I _never_ lose." the Israeli woman spat back, "*sigh* I'll be so damn pissed if..."

Her partner shook his head and held back a chuckle.

"Come on. I'll cheer you up."

Jordan then led her to one of the benches at the shooting range, and proceeded to where Jack and Miles spectated from. The two men didn't leave their spot, and instead they were having a rather cheerful discussion beside a cooler. Jordan was impressed that they brought his pet-project to the range today, and so he motioned to them by waving his hand. The bald man with the shades was the first to notice the two shooters approach.

"You and Liz had fun?", he called.

"Not as fun as what you got over there, Jack."

"Say no more." Miles cut in, "Order for two, comin' right up."

The dark-skinned man opened the cooler and brought out two beer cans. The smooth metal shells were covered with cold beads of water, as if they were fresh from the fridge. Miles then tossed the cans to his customers, with Eliza catching hers with two hands. A better look at the beverage caused her to smile; she was just handed her favorite brand, straight from her homeland no less.

"Wow, where the hell did you get this?" she asked.

"You can thank Sergeant Porter for that." Miles replied, as he brought out a can for himself, "Not easy to find, by the way. He had to ask for a bigger cut than usual."

Curious, Eliza peered into the cooler and found it filled with an almost-soupy, weird-smelling concoction of cold water, with other beer cans buried beneath the mixture. The display of wayward chemistry in action intrigued her more than the fact that James actually runs a 'procurement' operation at the SAS base.

"Gotta love chemistry, huh?" she commented.

To see her grin like a buffoon was enough to make Jordan happy as well. And now for the kicker.

"I used dry ice and acetone on this one, actually." he explained, "I wanted to see if I can instantly drop the temperature to minus 60 degrees Celsius before-"

"W-wait, acetone?!" the woman exclaimed, "Are you trying to poison me?!"

"Relax, lady..." Jordan raised his hands in defense, "I was _extra_ careful. No aftertastes, I promise!"

With a hesitant look on her face, Eliza popped the top of her beer. A fizz of air escaped from the hole, no doubt caused by the pressure built from the deathly-cold temperatures inside the cooler. Putting the tip of the can on her lips, she expected to be met with a plastic-y flavor that would only come from Jordan's copious handiwork with chemicals. To her surprise, she tasted nothing special, save from the warm, refreshing fruity tang of malt and fermented berries that she always loved in Jerusalem and anywhere else.

Amused at her reaction, the other Americans followed suit, opening their cans and gulping down. True to the chemist's word, no other flavor was registered in their palates except from the familiar taste of home. Jordan felt a great sense of pride, knowing that his Bachelor of Science can still be used to help put a smile in other people's faces, rather than melt them off.

"Takes your mind off of training, doesn't it?" Miles asked Eliza.

"Mmhmm." she mumbled, as her mouth was preoccupied.

For a moment, the four of them felt like they were back in California, enjoying a afternoon chug of beer after a couple of rounds at the FBI firing range in San Diego. It didn't take long to remind themselves that it has already been a six months since they left the United States. The homesickness is definitely there, no matter how faint. And the Israeli woman has it worse, since she has not returned her hometown in _years_. Time spent with friends and family were instead dedicated to combat and combat training, but that rings true to many of fine men and women they're working with right now.

The silence was the perfect segway Jordan needed to change the topic.

"I don't understand why Six wants another test." He said, while leaving his can half full. "I'm fine with running and shooting, but I think there's more to this than the Cap'n has been letting on."

Everyone in the group agreed with him. Normally, Baker, or in this case Captain Souza, would just schedule a practice session at the firing range and the troopers only have to worry about getting their aim and timing right. This afternoon was different, since it added elements of speed, precision, and endurance that are typical of an Olympic competition. Whatever it is that Rainbow was suddenly asked to train for, it's likely serious.

"My guess is that Six is planning to send some of us stateside." Jack spoke. "If that's true, then she's looking for top shooters she can spare to the other team..."

"You seriously believe that she's gonna split us up?" Miles asked.

"Come on. You all heard Baker this morning, right?" the bald man continued. "If the White House believes an attack on US soil is imminent, then we're definitely shipping out to stop it. But we can't leave Europe behind either."

Jordan didn't know what to say. He never really bothered with the politics involved in police and counter-terrorism work, so he can neither agree nor disagree with the Deputy Director's decision. On one hand, it certainly makes sense for Rainbow to divide its manpower to fight in two fronts. But on the other hand, that also means that the team can no longer bring all of its guns to bear. If something big goes down, either in Europe or in the US, Rainbow will have to rely on local military and law enforcement to back them up on the scene. And if Fallujah taught Jordan anything, this arrangement rarely works out smoothly for all parties involved.

"Well shit..." Eliza muttered.

"I also bet we will be going to Fort Bragg." Jack added. "Good location, and it also has tons of hardware Rainbow could borrow: J-SOC, SAR birds, C-130s... "

The group took the military brat's word for it. It was quite ironic, since the man with _actual_ military experience has relatively little to share about the subject of American military installations. And even then, his opinion is a tad biased. Call it Devil Dog Pride, but Jordan would rather be stationed at Lejune or Pendleton.

"Fort Bragg? *snorts* Oh boy..."

"Aww, what's the matter?" Eliza joked. "The Leatherneck is scared to sleep at an _Army_ base?"

"What? I've never been there before, that's all." he defended.

The woman chuckled, just as she was about to take another gulp. She has a point there, though. The former Marine was getting anxious simply because Rainbow is about to venture into unknown territory. This will be the first time half of the taskforce will be stationed elsewhere. True, there's the chance he'll be able to visit his folks in Texas for a week. But then there's also the possibility of being separated from his friends. In the end, his worries are a moot point, at least until the roster is shuffled and the arrangements are made. And even then, Jordan will have no choice but to follow Six's orders, whatever they may be. They're likely to be the usual: training exercises, drills, weapons proficiency tests, and so on.

"Man, I'm gonna miss England if I get the draft pick..."

"Careful, brother. I think your grandpa just rolled in his grave." Miles laughed, playing up his friend's Irish ancestry.

"Well, I'm happy no matter how it goes down..." their female friend commented, "...as long as Skull Girl isn't joining us."

Once again, she turned to Taina's direction with a jealous look in her eyes. The BOPE officer was still talking to Captain Souza, presumably about her performance this afternoon. Jordan wanted to tell his lady friend that her rivalry with the new girl is ultimately one-sided, but where's the fun in that? Besides, she should know better than to get in the face of a potential sociopath.

As the friends finished their drinks, they heard Souza blow his whistle again.

"Second Group! Get to your starting positions!"

One by one, a new batch of five entered the range: Craig, Monika, Tim, Emma, and Markie. Like their predecessors, the shooters donned ear muffs and tinted safety goggles as they prepared themselves for what's about to come in the next 30 seconds. It was time for the previous participants to sit and spectate. Without saying anything, Miles brought out another batch of cans for the four of them to share.

"Check it out, Liz." Jordan spoke. "This should be good..."

"Yeah..."

They know that this might be the last time their little group will be sitting together, leisurely. They'd rather not make this a somber moment.

* * *

 **Author's Notes/Comments:** The 'beer portion' of this chapter was inspired by an old blog post about "quick and easy" ways to chill beverages. The dry ice/acetone method intrigued me and I thought it was something Thermite _might_ be able to pull off.  Please don't try this at home, as I don't even know if it is possible/safe/practical. In other news, Fuze is going to have to wait for a while because Thermite's chapter gave me a eureka moment for that Blitz x IQ oneshot some readers have been asking for. Stay tuned for it!


	11. Chapter 11 - Fuze

**.**

* * *

 **Shuhrat "Fuze" Kessikbayev**

* * *

The first time Shuhrat heard about 'Fort Bragg, North Carolina' was in a meeting he had with a senior GRU officer. It happened a few years ago, on a cold snowy day at Number 3, Grizodubovoy Street with the rest of his platoon. At the time, the foreign intelligence service had a lot of sensitive matters to discuss with the Russian Army's elite. Needless to say, the words spoken in that muffled room are still fresh in his mind. And now, to be standing on American soil, to be enjoying some American hospitality, he can't help but feel... out of place.

"...And your new office is just on the next building.", the quartermaster pointed _. "_ Follow me, please."

Shuhrat, Marius, and Alex are being treated to a guided, afternoon tour of Pope Field: an Army airbase just a few kilometers north of Fort Bragg. Per arrangements made with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Pope Field will serve as Rainbow's primary staging area for its helicopters, weapons, and equipment in this part of the world. The tour has been going on for half an hour now, meeting random faces, opening random doors, under the close watch of a few military policemen. The VIP treatment felt a little bit undeserved, but it was definitely better than the dour welcome the SAS gave them many months ago. Wearing the team's distinctive black battledress and hoisting duffel bags over their shoulders, the three foreigners stuck out like a sore thumb to the men and women donning Army greens.

None of this mattered to the grumpy Uzbek, unsurprisingly. After enduring a sixteen-hour journey, he wasn't in a mood to do some sightseeing. There wasn't even time to get some shuteye after the long flight, but Seamus ordered his tech and weapons experts to inspect Rainbow's new facilities anyway. Shuhrat was very close to confronting the bald Scotsman, _his boss_ no less, and giving him a piece of his mind, but he relented. Sometimes he wonders why he signed up for this outfit in the first place, considering how often they're overworked and sleep-deprived. In a different world, this would not be the case.

"Hey." Marius called to him. "...Are you still with us?"

The German noticed the frown in the fair-skinned fellow's face. Not only did he look exhausted, he was also deathly quiet. Grumpier than usual, in other words.

"Hmph. Yes I am, unfortunately..."

Marius simply snorted and shook his head at the younger man's bitter response. Even after months of working together, the two tinkerers still don't see eye to eye. Mutual vitriol is perhaps the best thing they can hope for until they grow out of their snobbery and insufferableness.

But things could've been much worse. Shuhrat has a lot to thank for because Rainbow has been a mostly positive experience for him so far. Nobody treated the gruff and moody craftsman from Samarkand any more different than the men and women in the team. For all its faults, this job is a _massive_ improvement over his first experience meeting foreigners, which was when he and his family left for Russia. What was meant to be a promising search for greener pastures instead turned into a time of difficulty, mired by discrimination and red tape. After that, he never thought he'd want to visit another country again.

And yet, here he is.

Not a moment later, the tour finally arrived at its destination, guarded by a large metal door. The quartermaster, wasting no time, placed his keycard onto the scanner, which then rang with an audible beeping. Immediately after, the large door slowly opened and revealed its prize: a machine shop-turned weapons facility tucked into one of Pope Field's massive aircraft hangars. Inside the bright, spacious building is a Blackhawk helicopter draped in a purple sheet- the first thing that caught Marius's attention. At the far end of the room is a large cubicle, containing all sorts of workbenches, storage lockers, fabricators, and other machinery leased to the team. The air inside has a faint, plastic-y aroma: presumably from the chemical retardant underlays installed in the ceiling.

Judging by the awe strewn in the trio's faces, the Americans delivered on their promise.

"…And this is the armory.", the quartermaster proudly presented. "Everything here is yours to play with. Within reason, of course."

"What about our weapons?" Marius asked, subtly claiming his place as de facto leader of this little entourage. He noticed that the gun racks were empty.

"They'll be delivered here within the day. Just need to sort things out with the boys at Logistics."

"Okay. _Danke_."

"Right. Here are your keycards. Give me a holler if you need anything else."

With that, the man with the chevrons on his sleeve turned around and left the group, followed by the MPs. Shuhrat took a moment for himself and scanned his new surroundings, digesting every little detail in his mind as he set his bag on top of a random desk. Taking the layout, the size, and the equipment into account, he quickly realized that the entire set-up of the place was not that all different from the one he used in Hereford, only much larger. Therefore, adjusting to this environment will not be as hard as he thought it will be. However, a part of him also noted that he's standing on a treasure throve of top secret military information, the likes of which the GRU will gladly kill to get their hands on.

For starters, this building alone has everything that the old GRU reports speculated about Pope Field: electronic security, blast resistant doors, NBC shielding. By the looks of it, the concrete walls of its hangars are at least one meter thick- too much depth for the Matryoshka charges to bore through. In a hypothetical, and extremely unlikely, scenario that the GRU orders an assault to take this airbase, the Spetsnaz must bring _a lot_ of explosives with them. And perhaps a lot of tanks as well.

Then there's the entirety of Fort Bragg to consider: the place is absolutely _huge_. A sprawling military complex of smaller bases, facilities, and communities covering more than a hundred thousand acres. The atmosphere here is much more relaxed than the SAS base in Hereford, which is a bit strange considering Fort Bragg's strategic importance. Hell, it's not unusual to find an Army office and a shopping center on the same street. Little wonder, then, why the Deputy Director chose this place as Rainbow's _other_ base of operations.

Shuhrat can't believe he still muses about this covert ops stuff, as if he was still in the GRU's payroll. Today's trip was long and tiring; he needed to focus, lest a nearby couch would succeed in tempting him to sleep. First things first: the inventory check. His next steps has him heading towards the nearest storage lockers in the cubicle, just to get it over with. At least once this is done, he has every excuse in the world to take a well-earned rest.

Marius, ever the go-getter, tossed his bag to a random table and went to work as well. His attention was immediately devoted to the helicopter parked in the middle of the hangar. He then started barking orders to his companions, as if they were hired help.

"You two! Check those workbenches over there. See if they have the right specs that we ordered."

Not exactly the kind of words the Uzbek wanted to hear so soon. If there's anything that gets under his skin, it's someone telling him how to do his job.

" _Zatem prover'te sebya, piz`da..._ (Check them yourself, you cunt...)", he muttered under his breath.

Marius didn't hear it. Alexander Senaviev, who was just standing nearby, patted his comrade's shoulder.

"Shuhrat. _Perestan'te byt' grub k svoyemu bratu, teper._ (Don't be rude to your brother, now.)"

" _Zanimaytes' svoim delom_ _!_ (Mind your own damn business!)", he spat back.

Of course, the old soldier with the greying scruff just laughed at his attempt to put him in his place. It's just what the younger man needed to feel even more uneasy. While his comrades went to their respective stations and got settled, Shuhrat opened a storage locker and inspected its contents. Pulling out a notebook from his bag and scribbling down, he didn't give a damn if this locker wasn't the same place Marius ordered him to go check.

A quick look at the supplies that the American government has graciously provided them with, it's clear that they are more than enough to build and maintain Rainbow's high-tech arsenal. All he needs to do now is to catalogue each component and count them all. But it's safe to assume that with the right tools, a few more pistons and drill components can be handcrafted from these materials to create another batch of Matryoshka chasses. The fabricators can help Alex build spare parts for his custom Degtyaryov LMG. The reloading bench can supply Marius with more ammunition for his Magpie defense systems. And there's enough copper wire here to help Emma build another RSD-1 drone.

The ex-Spetsnaz suddenly wished their mutual lady friend had joined them in the tour earlier, rather than sleep in her room at the Army barracks. But that's probably for the best, because she can be quite annoying when she's excited. And there's plenty of things here for her to be excited about.

" _Tovarisch_! Check this out!" Alex called out.

Speak of the devil. The two men immediately stopped what they were doing, only to see the other Russian at the workbenches, stupidly grinning ear to ear, and clutching a large turret shield in his hands. It looked like the same ones the US Army normally installs on its tanks and APCs.

"I can put this in my machinegun, _da_?"

"If you want to be an even bigger target, sure.", Marius replied sarcastically.

"Hah! Says the man who loves wearing large earmuffs!"

"Hey, my helmet keeps me... Shut up, you _dummkopf_..."

Poor humor and thinly-veiled contempt: this is part of what Shuhrat signed up for. Exasperated in his mind, he went back to work, removing his presence from the banters between the two.

Minutes went by. His only solace was the bits and pieces in front of him, neatly arranged inside toolboxes and drawers. The more he analyzed each batch of parts, the more he was impressed at the level of care the Americans give their tools. The last person who used this workbench must have been a seasoned craftsman who knew the importance of tidiness and proper organization, much like he did. Half of the job was already done, and the only thing left is to jot down how many eye lags, socket screws, carriage bolts, and other materials each container had.

The GRU, and the Russian Army by extension, also encouraged a similar level of discipline in craftsmanship. During his time in Alabino, most of the weapons that Shuhrat tested were not exactly modular in design. So when a prototype rifle is disassembled, every single component must be labelled and memorized, otherwise the weapon will fail, fall apart, or even misfire when it is put back together. As such, he devised ways to efficiently record every bolt and bullet they come across.

Such glaring similarities in work ethos only made him realize just how much he has in common with the Americans, at least when it comes to building things. And to think that a long time ago, on a snowy day somewhere in Moscow, an old spy reminder him and his fellow soldiers to consider these people as their adversary. In a different world, disparate countries can join forces and work together for a common purpose without any problem. Especially so if that world also has terrorists and other evil men who are indiscriminate of race, culture, or flag. But alas, political agendas, ideologies, and the like just had to get in the way. As for the one who used to blindly follow the GRU's orders, he felt a momentary tinge of shame, well-aware that he once contributed to the problem.

Perhaps leaving the GRU to work for Team Rainbow was his own, small way of setting things right? To use his talents to protect innocent people, rather than to serve the purpose of a select few?

But these are for another discussion, best saved for another time. Right now, he needs to keep listing Rainbow's supply of tech components. Taking a momentary break from his work, Shuhrat realized that he was not even halfway done with the contents of this locker. There are about five or six more waiting a run-through, excluding the other workstations that Alex is checking. Too much work to handle in so little time. He hates to admit that a part of him wants to leave this blasted inventory checking for tomorrow.

It is at this moment that Marius entered his peripheral vision. The German seemed upset when he emerged from the parked helicopter.

" _Verdammter mist!_ (Goddamit!)", he cursed. "They don't even have a rivet head gauge in this place!?"

If memory serves well, mechanics need this to measure the height and diameter of the rivets on an aircraft's fuselage. Good thing Shuhrat already found one in a locker he just checked.

"Here you go..." he tossed the tool.

Marius was quick to catch the flying object into his hand. "Huh. Nice find."

The compliment was acknowledged, but nothing else came after that. It's just all in the day's work, from one tinkerer to another. They may hate each other's guts, but they're still teammates. Much like what Alex said, they're 'brothers'.

"Hey, have you checked these lockers?", the German spoke again.

"*sigh* I'll get to them once I'm finished with this one-"

"No, it's fine. I got it from here."

That response caught the Uzbek's attention, causing him to stop for a moment and glance at the other man with skepticism in his eyes. This is the first time the proud engineer offered him a helping hand.

"Oh, what's this?" Alex blurted out from the other side of the room, " _Tovarisch_ Streicher is finally getting his hands dirty?"

"At least I make myself useful, unlike you."

The other two men burst into laughter when they heard that. It was a good jab at the older Russian's antics.

It all became clear now. This is what Shuhrat _really_ signed up for. To see, or even to prove, that different people can stand side by side for the greater good. No strings attached, no hidden agendas from some cloak-and-dagger entity. All this time, Rainbow has been an example that everyone can set aside their prejudices and work together for the world's safety, accomplishing something larger than themselves. And to play a part in it all has been an amazing stroke of luck, a chance he never imagined he would get. The boy from Samarkand has certainly come a long way.

He took this realization to heart, content in knowing that he had truly outgrown whatever nonsense the GRU taught him. The trio spent the rest of the afternoon working at the hangar, as they were ordered to, prepping it for Rainbow's eventual use the following morning. But right then and there, Shuhrat felt right at home.

* * *

 **Author's Comments/Notes:** The IQxBlitz story I wrote is still fresh in my mind, so apologies if the tone on this one is quite similar. Writing Fuze's story made me realize how interesting of a character he actually is. His immigrant background caught my attention, but the fact that he once worked for the ultra-secretive GRU intrigued me more. As an aside, I'm hoping the leaked "Tachanka buff" turns out to be true, so I referenced it here. Next up is Buck. Cheers!


	12. Chapter 12 - Buck

**.**

* * *

 **Sébastien "Buck" Côté**

* * *

…

Three days have passed.

"Did you talk to him already?", Meghan asked over the phone.

"An hour ago, yes.", Sébastien curtly replied as he stood at the bright hallway, wiping the beads of sweat on his forehead. His brown and grey PT gear was still a bit soggy from his morning workout. "This better be worth it, Meg. I asked a favor from an old acquaintance of mine. You imagine how that made me look?"

He juggled all sorts of blasphemous expletives in his mind, holding back his desire to scream them out and let her know just how furious he is. His peace and quiet at the gym was shattered when this woman called earlier. Worse, she asked him to hook up with the American liaison officer he used to work with during his Mountie days. Now, she's bugging him again about it. Not exactly a great way to start the morning.

"Oh, quit whining.", Meghan brushed him off. "You get your pal in the ATF to help us, I'll buy you a ticket for the next Habs game. Promise."

"Horse crap…", he muttered.

"I'm serious! I can get you a deluxe seat at Centre Bell once I sign a few forms. Interested?"

Her attempt to placate him only soured his mood even more, insulted by the proverbial carrot she was dangling. He joined the team because he's a soldier, not a clerk. And a ticket for a hockey game? She didn't have to stoop _that_ low just to get his help. But then it dawned on him that she's basically risking her commission by enlisting an outsider's help off the books. He would probably panic as well if he was in her shoes.

" _Chrisse qui pisse_ (For Christ's sake)... Alright, I'll ask him to put you in the loop..."

If he was going to take his first and only bribe, he'd rather do it for a good cause. Besides, as a Montrealer, why wouldn't he want to see the Habs in action?

"Hah! I knew you'd come around!", the woman exclaimed.

Sébastien pictured her sitting behind her desk, wearing that stupid grin, amused that she got things to go her way once more. A Canadian helping an American get an American police agency to work for her by proxy- he wanted to quip about how idiotic it sounds. Then again, he volunteered himself as Rainbow liaisons to half a dozen law enforcement agencies in the world, simply out of a sense of kinship. Who's the idiot now? But at least he's doing his part. Nothing infuriates him more than one's inability to pull their weight, more so if that 'someone' happened to be himself. All his life, he was taught to have little tolerance for incompetence. Thankfully, Rainbow has been anything but, thus far.

"Seriously, this will be a big help.", Meghan spoke again, her voice reverting to a more serious tone. "JSOC's scrambling all their assets in New England after what happened in the Port of Boston last night."

"And the ATF is not helping us? Really?", he commented.

"I know right? You think we're supposed to be on the same side. But I suppose you know how feds are..."

He agreed with her, recalling his personal experience with the Bureau. For a split second, glimpses of charts, case files, drug raids, and petty squabbles among colleagues flashed in his mind. While an excellent service to his country, working with the US-led narcotics task force in Toronto was also mired with frustration and politicking. That memory is best left buried, as far as he's concerned.

"We'll need more hands to find those shipments, that's for sure. What about the Boston Police?"

"Tsk. Easier said than done.", she muttered, audibly licking her lips. "We can't ask state and local law enforcement for help without going public. The boss lady said so..."

Her last sentence caused him to pause for a bit. For a moment, he forgot that Team Rainbow is a clandestine counter-terrorism organization, barely held accountable by the most powerful government in the world. Their presence here in Fort Bragg is a closely-guarded secret that needed a lot of strings to be pulled. That left them with next to no resources to spare for immediate crises, such as this one. Thankfully, Meghan already did her homework.

"Don't worry, Buck.", she reassured him, using his _nom de guerre_. "I have a few guys headed your way. Call me when your contact gets back to you, alright?"

"No problem..."

And with that, Sébastien ended the call, breathing a sigh of relief now that he's free from her prying. Same crap, different day. Once again, the world stands on the brink of catastrophe, and the good guys can't do anything proactive to stop it because of bureaucratic hogwash. And if his contact doesn't call soon, the team will be in the blind when all hell breaks loose.

But he'd rather not get worked up on something beyond his control. The day is young, there is still a few hours before lunch, and he can still get back to his morning workout program. With renewed purpose in his heart, he began to make his way back to the gym, switching his mind's focus from 'business' to 'leisure'. Along the way, he thought about what he'll be doing next after he's done with the exercise. Probably do another review of the team's operational notes, or a quick test fire at the range, or even a visit to the armory at Pope Field to tinker with his custom C8-SFW, as old habits go.

In all honesty, though, he'd really much prefer to be down in a rink somewhere or skiing at Mont-Tremblant with his chums. Things have been so stressful as of late, he needed to enjoy every instance of peace and quiet he can get away with. Anything other than 'official business' is welcome.

Turning to a corner, the Montrealer saw Jordan leaving the gym. He seemed fresh from the showers after running the treadmill a while ago.

"Had enough for today, Trace?"

"Little more than expected, man.", the Texan replied. "Tina and Max are still at it though, case you're wonderin'..."

Both exchanged nods as they walked past each other. Then, the bearded man opened the swivel doors of the gym. Once again, he was treated to the sight of weights, benches, lockers, and exercise machines. Cool, scented air emanated throughout the room, much to his appreciation.

The center of the gym was mostly vacant, save for a large fighting mat and a few sports bags. There, Sébastien saw his two comrades still engaged in their mock hand-to-hand fight, gloved and barefooted in their PT gear. It was a friendly full-contact sparring match between FSB officer Maxim Basuda, the brawny Russian standing tall with his arms held wide, and Air Force Second Lieutenant Tina Lin Tsang, legs slightly apart and fists raised. A while ago, the two of them were trading punches, kicks, and grapples, pitting their respective unarmed combat styles against each other. Apparently, neither has won yet.

"This should be good..."

The match has been going on for quite a while now, judging from the sweat on their bodies. Then suddenly, Tina lunged at Max, her fist aimed at the older man's right temple. It was a calculated move, but also a big mistake on her part. Max anticipated her attack, blocked her punch and caught her arm, pulling her down into the mat. The lightning-speed caught the Vancouverite by surprise; her narrow eyes shot wide in brief terror. In a fluid, but savage motion, the Russian forcefully pinned the woman to the ground and grappled her into an armbar with his legs. It was an unexpected upset. The lone spectator almost gasped in awe.

"ARGH! Okay, you win! You win!" Tina yelled, tapping the mat with her other arm.

Just like that, the fight was over in less than five seconds. Max grinned smugly as he slowly released his faux-death grip on her, taking his time to stand up. Typical of him to savor the victory, Sébastien murmured in his brain. But then in a rare show of admiration, the Russian offered his hand to Tina, who was flat on her back.

"That was a good match!" He praised in his heavy accent as he helped her on her feet. "Care to do it again sometime?"

"Not a chance, you sick bastard...", she responded with a chastising look. "We were sparring. You didn't have to be so rough!"

Max laughed at her complaints. The two of them exchanged stares before devolving into grins and chuckles. It was at that moment that the other Canadian decided to make his presence known.

"What, you expected this guy to go easy on you, Tina?"

Two pairs of eyes turned to his direction. They noticed that his arms were crossed, but his face was neutral.

"Oh, I didn't see you there, Bastien..."

"Hmph. Situational awareness, Lieutenant...", he blurted out. "...No wonder you lost."

"You realize he's bigger than me, eh?", she placed her hands on her waist. "What did you expect?"

" _Je m'en câlisse_ (I don't give a damn). If that was a real fight, you would be dead."

Again, little tolerance for incompetence. Well, more like 'lackluster performance' in this case, but the point still stands that he doesn't approve of her loss. Anything less than a win is unacceptable. That's one of the unwritten laws of JTF2, drilled into their heads back in Ottawa.

"In a real fight...", Max cracked his neck. "…I would just shoot her head off. Faster that way."

"Gee, nice to know you're a _true_ gentleman, Maxim..." Tina commented, slightly tense.

The fighters then went to their respective places, grabbing a face towel to cool off or their personal choice of cool beverage to chug down. Sébastien immediately noticed the deafening silence in the air, as if all life has been expunged from this large room. He should've been ecstatic to discover another moment of tranquility, allowing him to put his mind at ease and lessen the tension in his bones. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to return to resume his workout regimen. All of a sudden, he was back to being a consummate professional.

Tina looked at him with a similarly neutral expression. He could already tell what she has on her mind.

"So… what's the word about Boston?", she asked. "Do we have the green light?"

He stared at her for a short while, carefully picking the next words he will say. Her question is a quick reminder as to _why_ they're here in the first place. Threat projections of an imminent terrorist attack on US soil have been hanging over Rainbow's collective heads ever since they got their new lodgings at Bragg. As far as Meghan's intelligence sources are concerned, this attack is coming soon.

And right now, the current situation isn't good. There have been various leads of possible terrorist activity even before Rainbow landed at Fort Bragg earlier this week. Out of all the 'pings', using that frogwoman's vernacular, the one in Massachusetts came under Rainbow's spyglass. Twelve hours ago, Homeland Security learned about suspicious shipments coming in and out of the Port of Boston. The contents, the senders, or even the recipients of these packages are unknown. The FBI and the ATF have been on the case since last night, looking for persons of interest. While the feds would serve as the eyes and ears, Rainbow would act as the tip of the spear for when the excrement hit the fan. Sébastien's old friend in the ATF agreed to give him an update about this unfolding story.

"I'm afraid not.", he tersely replied to her question. "We're standing down until the Americans give us an update..."

He'd be lying if he said that his own answer puts him at ease. On the contrary, the mere fact he resorted to drumming up one of his contacts is a sign of quiet desperation. At the moment, actionable intelligence is scarce. Rainbow can do nothing but sit and watch. This faint anxiety is a big reason why he needed to relax this morning, just to clear his head.

Unsurprisingly, his reply didn't sit well with Tina. She shook her head, lips turned down.

"You know we should be out there, right? Doesn't feel right to be twiddling our thumbs, doing nothing..."

Part of him agreed with her. Putting Rainbow in reserve and letting the Americans do most of the work is a rather wasteful allocation of resources. The pragmatist in him fears that if things keep up like things, the bad guys will have more reason to strike with impunity. And it will be too late for the team to respond when it happens. Yet, it would be equally stupid if the team went against orders. Nobody in their right mind will get into needless danger without knowing what they're up against.

But it's not as if they're doing _nothing_. They're keeping their head in the game by letting off some steam, all the while waiting for orders from up-top. They're keeping their eyes and ears peeled for anything that could be of value. Keeping their stick on the ice, as the saying goes. And when the time comes to wear game faces, Rainbow will be there on the ground, fast and efficient like clockwork.

Sébastien couldn't believe what he's thinking. He's getting worked up over something that should be discussed at the briefing room.

"Come on." He rested his hand on Tina's shoulder, "Let's get breakfast. That will cheer you up."

All taste for calisthenics and physical exercise has left them, it seems. She looked at him for a few seconds, desponded. Then from out of nowhere, Max entered his view.

"How about a match first? You and me."

"What?", he asked the Russian, obviously confused.

"I still want to see if the _kanadtsy_ are good at anything, besides hockey."

He had the most mocking smile Sébastien has ever seen. This bastard is trying to get under his skin, with that obvious bait of an insult. It's not going to work, of course. In the background, however, the woman was befuddled by the scene unfolding in front of her. As if a fistfight is about to break out.

"Go pick on someone else..."

"Oh I get it..." Max grinned, "...I guess the Habs are just a bunch of cowards, huh!"

Upon hearing that, he felt a sudden spike of rage in his heart. It's been a while since he heard someone badmouth his home team. Then, his eyes immediately locked themselves onto the source of the insult. He should've known better though, because Tina just covered her mouth, stifling her laugh. She knows where this is going.

"HEY! You take that back, _hostie de pouri_ -"

*THUD!*

Sébastien was in the middle of confronting him when he suddenly found himself pulled into the mat with a resounding smack. Within milliseconds, his head was locked between Max's arms, the life slowly being squeezed out of him. He struggled to get himself free, but the vice-grip was incredibly strong. His brief anger was replaced by sheer shock now that he's in this man's mercy. It's quite embarrassing; he couldn't believe he let his guard down and actually catch the bait.

Tina towered over them and shook her head, arms crossed, smiling in disbelief.

"Hehehe. 'Situational awareness', Bastien.", she spoke. "God, I can't believe you fell for _that_."

She proceeded to leave him at the Russian's mercy, giggling as she went to gather her things. It's all fun and games, except for the victim. Nothing left to do but to spout the blasphemous cusses he's saved up from earlier.

"ARGH! _Mon câlisse de sacrament!_ (Oh, fuck me!) Dammit! Argh…"

So focused at his current predicament, the bearded man failed to notice that the door to the gym has just opened.

"Umm… Excuse me?", a female voice spoke.

Three pairs of eyes suddenly turned to its direction. Standing by the door frame was a dark-haired woman in black and blue overalls. Her narrow eyes scanned the features of the gym like a tourist. Behind her was a tall man with thick, slightly messy hair, fumbling with his phone. Their facial features were distinctively similar to Tina's.

As the one closest to the door, Sébastien forcefully pried himself free from Max and made his way to greet the visitors.

"May I help you, miss…?"

"Oh, pardon my manners...", she extended her hand with beaming smile. "Inspector Imagawa. Aichi Prefectural Police. That's Officer Enatsu behind me. We were sent here by Lieutenant Castellano from the Intelligence office..."

Were these the guys Meghan talked about earlier? First things first, the Montrealer accepted the handshake.

"I was told that Mr. Jordan Trace was here...", the woman went on. "Have you seen him?"

...

* * *

 **Author's Notes/Comments** : Apologies if this chapter took quite a while. I wanted to make sure I did Buck justice, so I went through quite a lot of drafts for his story. He came across to me as a serious, no-nonsense type of guy, but I believe he has something else beyond that (like being a dedicated Montreal Canadiens fan). The next chapter will be about Hibana, obviously, so stay tuned!


	13. Chapter 13 - Hibana

**.**

* * *

 **Yumiko "Hibana" Imagawa**

* * *

Yumiko has done this dozens of times before. Keep the launcher leveled, brace the shoulder stock, use the laser reticle as a guide. After identifying the target, press the trigger, then work the pump-action to chamber another en bloc clip of pellets. Then check for a good hit; all six should unfold and line up in two rows of three on the large, metal wall mockup. When ready, press the detonator to ignite the metal oxide in the pellets. Wait for the hissing. 'The rest is chemistry', as Jordan used to tell her.

Detonation takes about five to six seconds.

*BOOM!*

As expected, tiny fragments and debris flew from the point of impact 20 meters ahead. When the smoke cleared, the mockup bore a gaping, rectangular hole, a couple of feet tall and a few more as wide. The trajectory was perfect, the distance was spot on, the chemicals were mixed to perfection. She smiled at her handiwork and set the launcher on the table. Then, she removed her earmuffs and safety goggles, as did her spectators in the indoor firing range. The large, brightly-lit room soon erupted in a choir of awe and applause. For a positive first impression, Yumiko turned around and bowed.

The black fatigues and the white patch she's wearing today say it all. She's one of them now. And there's no reason to doubt that anymore, as two of her new co-workers approached her table to talk to the woman who helped create this piece of classified military technology. In her mind, she sifted through the various personnel dossiers she's been reading since yesterday, hoping to catch the correct names and recognize the correct faces. She could've sworn she worked with a few of these men and women in the past.

Admittedly, she only _really_ knows one person in this small crowd. And he's hanging back, watching from the rear, avoiding all attempts at eye contact…

"Quite impressive, Inspector." A tall, burly white man with the bald head and the strange accent commended her. His name is Seamus Cowden. British Special Air Service, if memory serves her right. "How far can ya launch those pucks?"

"Max effective range is about a hundred meters, Sergeant.", Yumiko politely replied. "The pellets disperse unevenly beyond that. Though I can tweak the gas pressure to keep them steady at a longer distance…"

"Kill radius?", asked the ex-Spetsnaz demolitions specialist Surhan Kessikbayev. Or was it 'Shuhrat'?

"Only behind the point of impact. Most of their payload goes into punching the hole, so there shouldn't be enough to kill anyone…"

Not that she recommends being anywhere near the pellets when they go off, though. Her mind then shifted to the operational notes that she made few months ago. While the compact breaching charges are primarily designed to penetrate reinforced steel, they still produce enough shrapnel to write off any poor sap on the other side as collateral damage. Well, at least that's what the 1st Airborne Brigade discovered in its own X-KAIROS trials in Narashino.

"Hmm… that doesn't sound bad.", the Scottish man spoke. "Do you mind if we...?"

"Oh, be my guest!", Yumiko replied, rather cheerfully. "The manual has all the technical stuff if you're interested."

Seamus and the other man hovered over the desk, ogling at the new hardware. Soon enough, the rest of the crowd followed suit, bunching around the tiny space like typical conventioneers at a tech demo. She could see a few other faces in this crowd, people she had the pleasure of meeting years ago. There's Officer Monika Weiss, the author of that famous treatise on electronic signal dispersion and detection at CalTech. GIGN's Gilles Touré, one of the heroes of Air France 8969, was mingling as well. Miles Campbell, the chill, friendly guy she had the pleasure of competing against in Quantico, was sharing a laugh with Navy Lieutenant Junior Grade Meghan Castellano, the tattooed blonde who gave her directions earlier.

Yumiko's partner, Masa, was also there to answer questions about his Yokai drone, which he demonstrated to the team earlier. This is the perfect opportunity for the insufferable jerk to stroke his ego.

"Em. What are you doin'?", Cowden asked the shorter woman with the black hair.

"Just gonna send this to Cohen back in England, sir...", Emmanuelle Pichon replied as she took a picture of the X-KAIROS with her smartphone. She's that tech-savvy GIGN operative that the Japanese woman met in Satory long ago. "I want to imagine the look on her face when she sees her replacement!"

"Oi, nobody is getting replaced. Pack that in..."

The banter from these people is intriguing. Definitely much more relaxed than the dour and dull chats that Yumiko has gotten used to at the precinct back home. These hardened, elite counter-terrorism experts are more like close friends than simple colleagues. And that's actually a good thing. Working with them, she thought, will be a unique and memorable experience, that much is certain.

But the former policewoman has another reason for being here. Slipping away from her audience as they talked amongst themselves, she scanned the room for that American man with the short brown hair and the scarred forearms. Her eyes scanning left and right, she finally saw him in a nearby corner, standing in silence, fumbling his hands on an inert breaching pellet he picked up earlier. A couple of years' worth of collaborative work right on his fingertips, his face mixed with amusement and confusion.

 _There you are._

She noticed that his fashion sense didn't change much. Those welder's goggles are still hanging around his neck. And what's with the silly hand wraps anyway? She could chat him up about it, make up for lost time. Slowly, her feet led her to him.

"Jordan Trace...", she called.

The man turned to see her.

"Hello to you too, Inspector Imagawa…"

"Inspector Imagawa?", Yumiko raised an eyebrow. "I thought we've moved beyond the last name basis years ago?"

"You tell me, ma'am.", he shrugged. "Did we?"

They stared at each other for a few seconds. There's no doubt he still remembers that day when they parted ways. Then, stoic faces slowly turned into friendly smiles.

"Heheheh. Long time no see, Yumi."

" _Hisashiburi_! (It's been a while!)"

They gave each other a tight, happy embrace, like siblings who haven't seen each other in ages. When they pulled away, laughing as they went, Jordan crossed his arms and relaxed his shoulders. They've been looking forward to this reunion for quite some time. The woman more so; she couldn't believe her old friend was recruited by Rainbow as well. The feeling is mutual, unbeknownst to her.

"Wow. How long has it been, Jordie? Three years?"

"Two and a half, actually.", he cleared his throat. "You certainly got... thicker. The hell have you been eating?"

Yumiko lightly slapped his face. Any other man, she would've punched in the gut. And that's when she's in a good mood.

"I was looking for you at the gym, you bastard. That bearded guy… whatshisname… 'Frost'? He said-"

"That's Buck…", he corrected her.

"Buck, Frost... whatever. He told me you left just as when I got there..."

The first day on the job and she's already mixing up the names of her teammates. But her friend just smiled rather than mock her for it. Thank goodness that he's the same cordial gentleman that she met long ago. The warm feelings from all those years ago started to come back.

"So… uh… What's up?", he asked. "Sure took your sweet ass time flying here."

"Still thinking about my ass after all these years, hmm?", she teased.

"Jesus Christ… don't change the subject!"

And it's still fun getting on his nerves, too. But if he's wondering why she and her partner joined Rainbow so late, it's because a dozen old men in suits spent days arguing if they can let Yumiko Imagawa and Masaru Enatsu leave the National Police Agency or not. Senseless bureaucratic stuff, really. Jordan doesn't need to know about this.

"Haha! Oh, I've been well...", she started her story. "I worked with the GSDF for their KAIROS tests this year… Then last month, I went to Romania for that CTU conference. Then Australia… Oh! I also joined a couple of Kyudo contests; won second place in my city..."

"Yeah, I read that one from Google...", Jordan muttered, grinning slightly. "Why are you still into that archery-stuff, huh? You could've been working on your trigger-finger instead…"

"Watch your mouth!", the woman sternly replied. "That 'archery-stuff' is my heritage! Besides, it's the only the time my old man gets to see me on TV..."

Has he been keeping tabs on her after all this time? The woman was surprised to learn that, to say the least. Catching up with him today wouldn't be as eventful as she originally thought after all.

But if there's anything she'd like to talk to him about, it's his feelings on the little pet project they started nearly three years ago in Amman. Ever since they separated and returned to their old lives, she took it upon herself to improve the design they brainstormed together. A sleepless night, long ago. She also did a lot of salestalking to the NPA just to get funding for the project. It must have been a bit of a surprise for Jordan to see the culmination of their work, in the form of an ordnance launcher that also looks like a damn children's toy. True enough, that's the next thing he wanted to discuss with her.

"Little 'ol KAIROS certainly looks different."

"Aww, do you like her?", she asked him. She also had the most sheepish smile she could conjure. "…Our baby girl is still a 40mm, like you always wanted!"

"You raised her well, honey.", Jordan replied, playing along. "She was just a blueprint the last time I saw her. Now look at her: the hottest chick in class..."

Unsurprisingly, their teammates were still huddled around their pride and joy, marveling at the device like a bunch of geeks. Even the humblest of heroes couldn't help but feel a tinge of pride. To be fair, a compact weapon system that shoots exploding pellets is sure to catch anyone's attention. Normally, blowing a big frigging hole on a wall requires a pack of C4 or a missile with a drill bit at the end. Thanks to Yumiko's little science trick earlier, everyone in this room now have another option to consider.

The current prototype is not entirely perfect, though, as evidenced by the exposed propellant canisters on the weapon's rear assembly. But as far as the female co-creator is concerned, this is as top-of-the-line as current ballistics and military technology can get. The attention that the device is getting from Team Rainbow proves it further.

"I figured you'd like how she turned out.", she continued. "By the way, I also changed our pellet design, if you don't mind."

"*sigh* Of course you did...", the man replied bitterly. "... I thought the 'floral motif' was just a joke."

It certainly was. But then, she felt it wouldn't be a bad idea to use her namesake for inspiration.

"It's a design choice!"

"I don't think you even know what that means, Yumi."

"I had to improvise!", she shrugged, feigning defensiveness. "You can't install the primers without making the pellets bigger…"

"Uh-huh. Riiight…"

"Hey wise guy, if you have a better idea, I'm all ears!"

Obviously, he wasn't convinced by that babble. But right after that, they shared a brief chuckle, mocking the absurdity of it all.

The more their bantering went on, the more Yumiko was drawn into a nostalgic mood. It felt like a lifetime since the two of them jabbed like friends, rather than talk like colleagues. And she's glad that the same person she admired from before is still there. Throughout the years, she has met a lot of people, made a lot of new friends, learned new things beyond her domain. If she stayed in her tiny cubicle at the police HQ in Nagoya, she wouldn't experience just how big the world is.

And she certainly wouldn't have met a man like Jordan, that's for sure. The two of them were the same. Disciplined, committed, and hard-working. She is passionate about her work, while he can rein her in with his cool head. Perfect chemistry. She had an inkling of it when they first met, but the days they shared together since then only proved the bond they really had. An unwavering dedication to serve, an unending drive to excel. She should've known she'll cross paths with him again. Thank goodness this opportunity came. She can only hope that he felt the same too.

"Oh man…", her friend muttered. "Now I remember why I'm glad you're here."

His words pretty much confirmed her sentiment.

"You'll change your tone when we're out in the field together, Jordie.", Yumiko boasted. "You haven't seen me run an op yet!"

"Pfft. You couldn't be as bad as the other door-kickers here…"

"Is that a challenge?", she gave a wry smile.

The man chuckled for a bit and patted her in the back. It was friendly little smack, like what a brother would give his little sister. The woman wanted to give him a friendly jab in response. But a laugh should do for now.

* * *

The equipment demo from Rainbow's newest members formally ended a few minutes later. The team then dispersed into little groups as they began to leave the firing range, one by one, with Seamus leading the way. He barked orders, like any other officer would. He kept yapping something about 'Boston' and a situation briefing at the meeting room once they're done with lunch. A quick look at her wrist watch, Yumiko realized that it was only a few minutes before 12PM. Her stomach is close to running on empty.

But first things first; it's time to put the X-KAIROS launcher back to its hardened carrying bag. She has done this dozens of times before: flick the safety on, lock the trigger, and release the excess pressure from the gas system. Then, pull the pump-action to confirm that the firing chamber is empty. Place any and all breaching pellets into their respective containers. Then, remove the propellant canisters at the back of the launcher and put them in the carrying slots on the bag. Anything less than these steps and she'll end-up carrying a live bomb without her knowing it. Another thing about the KAIROS to improve upon, she noted in her brain.

While humming to herself and stroking her black hair, Yumiko took one last look at Jordan. He was having a serious talk with Campbell, Pichon, Touré, and Lieutenant Castellano. Then he glanced at her, albeit briefly, before stepping out of the room. She smiled back.

 _Yeah, I'll see you later too._

Right then, she heard her partner Masa creep up from behind her, ruining her concentration. She hates it when he does that. For a guy who jealously guards his personal space, it's amazing that he doesn't share the same sentiment with other people. Sometimes she can't believe that she lasted this long with him.

"Hibana.", he called her. " _Kare wa anata no kareshi desu ka_? (So, is he your boyfriend?)

At that moment, her cheeks reddened in anger, not awkwardness. For the second time since they arrived in Fort Bragg, he asked her this stupid question. Why does he even care? And does he know that a woman doesn't like it if a man keeps pressing about her private affairs? What a prick.

" _Kare wa tomodachi_... (He's my friend...)", was her stern reply.

"Hah. _Sore wa tashika desu ka_?" ("Are you sure about that?")

His smile was more mocking than merry. She wanted to punch him so bad. But, she let patience and discipline prevail.

" _Hottoite kure._ (Leave me alone.)", she spat back.

Nothing is going to change between her and Jordan. They've made that clear on their last meeting, before any of this. They're professionals. And in their line of work, any distraction can get them or other people killed. The bond they have is strong, and she's not about to jeopardize that. For now, a good laugh and a pat in the back are the best they can share among themselves. She really doesn't mind it. At least, that's what she tells herself...

 _..._

 _Not this again._

Yumiko noted the thought. She'll have to deal with it later.

* * *

 **Author's Notes/Comments:** I purposely made this chapter as Hibana's first day on the job, so I referred to the operators using their last names (except Thermite of course). While I like the idea of Hibana and Thermite together, I believe their current relationship is of a platonic variety, with some potential to become something more. I'm definitely going to explore their chemistry (pun intended) in the future. Speaking of which, as I indicated in my profile, the next chapter (Sledge) will also be the second to the last. I want to wrap this series up before the year ends so that I can focus on the next one. Thank you so, so much for your support! :)


	14. Chapter 14 - Sledge

**.**

* * *

 **Seamus "Sledge" Cowden**

* * *

"…That about sums it up, everyone…", he ended his lecture. "…We rendezvous at the range at 1400 hours. Bring your kit, test your magazines, zero your sights, review the charts and fire sequences at the armory..."

The audience responded to Seamus with stares and silent nods. Completely neutral and professional expressions, but he can tell that they're still in mild bliss thanks to the hearty lunches they just ate. And to be informed of a weapons exercise, a grueling physical activity at that, so soon after isn't exactly a thrilling idea. But alas, a leader's job never ends. Everyone else in the room know that it is his job to keep them sharp at all times, ready for anything. Now more so, considering current events.

"No practice runs this time; we go straight to the shootin'…", he told them. "…Any questions?"

"…"

"Alright. Let's get back to work then. Dismissed."

With a nod from Seamus, the troopers stood from their chairs and made their way out of the room with their little cliques. An odd mix of faint laughs and peevish chatting rang throughout the meeting room as they moved, mixed with receding footsteps. He, on the other hand, went back to his desk and gathered his materials into a clear carrying folder. Finally, he's done with the briefing; standing in front and rambling for a full 30 minutes isn't exactly his cup of tea. The four-hour sleeps he's been having these past few days aren't helping either, so one couldn't blame him for acting quite cross.

There's always something else to do, sadly. Rainbow's intel is still in the blind about the ongoing manhunt, thousands of kilometers northeast of Bragg. The Deputy Director is still haggling with the Yanks about borrowing additional air assets for the team. Imagawa and Enatsu are yet to register into the VR training system. Then there are papers about team logistics, threat projections, and budget allocations that he must review, typically Baker's work. The list of pressing matters keeps going on and on and on, gnawing at the Scottish man. As much as he hates to admit it, he wants another break, even though he already had it when he joined the team at the mess hall earlier.

"Hey, Seamus? You got a moment?", Meghan called to him.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the blonde woman standing by the door frame, donning the same black outfit as his. No doubt she has even more official business to discuss with him. Par for the course these days.

"Just a minute. I'll be done in a while..."

It's times like this that he misses the company of his usual chums, who are probably bored out of their noggins back in England right now. He wished Baker was here; he's better with the cattle-prodding. And wherever the old man is, Markie and Jimmy are sure to be close behind; one to blather like an arrogant little runt between missions, and the other to provide sarcastic commentary to keep things interesting.

Now? Seamus has nobody but himself and Meghan to count on. Sure, they have Six's complement of pencil-pushers to lend a hand here and there, but most of the ground-level decisions fall to them. And unlike the American woman, he has the extra job of acting field commander. Leading an elite special operations task force, though a prestigious honor, is an incredibly heavy crown to wear. His little presentation proved this, where he basically compressed an infantry company's worth of tasks and exercises to fit the schedule of a team of professionals, less than twenty in number. But working with limited resources shouldn't be a surprise for him at this point, having known what it's like to lead a professional rugby team before. He should take heart in the fact that he survived _that one_.

And his wife is also a source of inspiration, he reminded himself. Katie deals with a whiny codger of a boss everyday, not to mention the mountains of bank accounts she needs to sort. If that wasn't enough, she has their son and their ridiculous mortgage to stress over. Yet, she's still as spritely as when he first met her at that party in Aberdeen. It may be a bit unfair to compare her day-to-day with his, but she's proven time and again how hard work and a cool head can create miracles.

It was at this point when his thoughts shifted to home, about his wife and son. It's probably 6PM in Scotland right now. Drizzling, cold. People headed for the pubs. Katie is at home with Malcolm, cooking dinner...

"Oh shite, I almost forgot...", he mumbled to himself

Seamus suddenly remembered the letter she sent him. A thin, yellow envelope, straight from home, three days old. The parcel found its way on his table earlier today, but the tall Scot never got around to reading it during lunch. Without missing a beat, he searched for it in his folder and pulled it out. Opening the flaps, he was surprised to learn the parcel's contents.

 _Well, I'll be buggered…_

In his palm was a miniature replica of his trusted Caber, small enough to fit into a key chain. It was custom-made, stainless steel, and it even got the little details right, like the sledgehammer's crowbar tip. Katie promised him this charm as a belated birthday gift, but he already left for the United States by the time she got her package. And she pulled through, despite the delay. A little smile formed in her husband's face, terribly unfitting for a burly bald man like him, but nonetheless heartwarming. The trinket was accompanied by a small note.

" _Seamus,_

 _Sorry if it took me a while to send this to you. The shop told me they had a lot of customers, so my order arrived late. Don't worry: I'll ask them for a refund tomorrow.  
_ _Stay safe. Come home soon._

 _Hugs and kisses,_

 _~Katie_ "

It's this personal touch that made her gift infinitely more wonderful. Seamus tucked the charm into his pocket, vowing to always wear it in the field. He should also make another vid-call to Katie, to tell her that he finally got her parcel. But then, his brain egged him to move on to the next item on today's itinerary. And that means leaving the room and heading down to the firing range, just like what he ordered his team to do. Then there's Meghan to deal with, who was leaning by the door and humming to herself. She had her hands in her trouser pockets. Relaxed, but professional. Her green eyes looked at him almost chidingly.

"You good?", she asked him.

"Unless you want me to do another speech, aye."

"Hehe. Maybe you should use smaller words next time, huh?"

"And _you_ should've been the one speaking in front, _Leftenant_.", he replied. His burly accent hid how exhausted he really was. "I felt like a complete dunder'ead (idiot) back there."

"Eh, you did alright.", she shrugged. "At least better than how I yap in my presentations anyway…"

The man gave a bland little smirk. The next thing that came to his mind was the day's developing story, no doubt what Meghan wanted to talk with him earlier. The team's surveillance and intelligence expert is perhaps the only one in the team with the slightest grasp about the missing weapons smuggled last night from the Port of Boston. Technically, the situation falls to the jurisdiction of American federal authorities. But as far as Rainbow Six is concerned, it also her purview, and the more than two dozen counter-terrorism operatives under her direct employ.

"So, anything new from the ATF? Bastien's contact ring you yet?"

"Nope...", she shook her head. "But our FBI friends say they are still following leads. Twenty agents plus a team from JSOC are roaming New England as we speak. I suppose that means we're still on standby for now."

"…Sticking thumbs on our arses, you mean…" Seamus griped.

"Well, at least your little target practice is gonna keep us occupied."

It's fair to say that he wasn't surprised to hear all that. But his feelings are irrelevant compared to the task at hand. Resigned to see another busy afternoon, with no rest in sight, the two officers walked out of the briefing room together and proceeded to the hallway. Then, they talked about operational matters as they trod along, especially the ones that the ex-SAS Sergeant discussed in the meeting earlier.

"So, how'd ya reckon the team?", he asked. "Think we're ready?"

"As ready as we'll ever be.", the blonde woman replied. "Our gear is prepped. You have execute authority in case something happens. We have two Blackhawks on the tarmac, just in case... Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot that one if you ask me, but whatever... We're just waiting for a phone call at this point."

"And the new guys?"

"I recommend we put the Inspector and her friend in reserve for now.", Meghan replied, matter-of-factly. "Maybe with Marius and Alex…"

A few steps later, the two emerged from the building, only to be graced the bright midday sun. Seamus brought up the carrying folder over his head to shield his eyes, whereas his American friend donned the sunglasses hanging on her shirt collar. He hates to admit it, but he's still trying to get used to this weather. This is nothing like the shifty climes of England.

"… But really, we should stop talking about mission protocols, Seamus. The stress is killing me..."

"Can't afford that, lass. We have a long day ahead o' us."

He already laid it all out during the meeting. Assuming nothing else happens this afternoon, the weapons drills will be followed by a few rounds on the kill house in Pope Field. It's a perfect opportunity to see how the two bobbies from Japan perform at a close quarters combat scenario. After that, a little drone exercise with the Army Engineers, to help the team acquaint themselves with their little robots. Then, a quick break and a situation report from the Deputy Director herself. Then weapons checks and maintenance; that one will continue for the rest of the day until dinner. The schedule seemed like overkill, but Seamus firmly believes that the 'slave driving' is necessary to keep the team on a high state of readiness.

And that was proven by the next scene that graced his eyes. Glancing to his right, beyond the silhouettes of shrubs and parked cars, the bald man saw a few of his teammates chatting as they walked. It was Jordan and Yumiko along another hallway, being egged on by Emma, Miles, and Alex. The three of them seemed like they were teasing the other two, judging from the hand gestures and the mischievous laughing. The voices were barely audible at this distance. Arguably, it's for the best, because another tirade of hogwash from these guys is sure to catch the Scotsman's ire.

The joking is all in good fun, obviously, but Seamus is nonetheless a little peeved to see his teammates fraternize this way. Like they're still in secondary school. What a waste of energy.

"At least they're having a good time..."

"They should bloody enjoy it while it lasts, Meg.", the tall man spoke. "I intend to put 'em through the wringer before tonight. Maybe I'll put those lot first in the kill house..."

The woman just laughed and shook her head.

"Oh man. I am sooo tempted to tell your wife how much of an asshole you _really_ are..."

"...Please stop reading our emails, ya tart. They're private...", he muttered in a completely deadpan voice. The only thing he got from her is another giggle.

"Someone has to do Markie's job, you know that!"

*RING* *RING*

They were interrupted by a chiming sound. Recognizing the tune, Meghan brought out the mobile phone from her back pocket.

"Hold on, I need to take this call.", she said to Seamus before walking away.

He gave an exasperated sigh as she left. Just like that, he found himself alone under the sun. It appears this is his lot in life, to be the source of pragmatic reason while the rest of his colleagues behave on their own accord. But it's not like they require more prodding than necessary in the first place. They're professionals. Nay, they're elite; the best of the best of their governments. Discipline is not a problem, contrary to a fledgling rugby team. He reminded himself that a little levity and leeway is crucial to keep them focused on the task at hand. And this is something that can't be done with rigorous drills, tests, and exercises alone. Everyone needs their source of peace. Much like how he found it from his wife and her quaint gift to him. The need for bliss understandable, given the nature of their work. Like Meghan said, the stress here is absolutely killer.

Without thinking, Seamus found himself clutching the little Caber in his pocket. He needed something to remind him of home. If he doesn't do his job well, he won't be coming back to Katie and Malcom. But more than that, if he doesn't do his job, _someone else_ from his team might not come home to his or her family, alive. Or worse, an innocent life will be lost on their watch. He can't let that happen. And that's why he needs to keep going, even as if his body is bidding him to stop, even if his mates seem to refuse to take things seriously. That's why he needs to live up to what Baker has been doing before. That's why he needs to-

"Seamus! SEAMUS!"

Instinctively, he turned to Meghan. Her voice was incredibly worried.

"What is it?", he asked.

Then all of a sudden, shouting and the sound of shuffling feet emanated around him. When the ex-SAS turned to the direction of Jordan and the others, he found them talking to a random soldier in a serious tone, before scurrying off to the adjacent building. The group looked at each other, their faces clearly in shock, then followed the young man inside. It was such a puzzling turn of events.

...

"Meg...?", Seamus turned to her again.

The blonde woman was slackjawed, holding her breath. Her next words sent chills down his spine.

"We have a Code Red in progress! Come on!"

She quickly ran ahead of him, her right hand firmly wrapped around her mobile, and proceeded to the building where their teammates just went. Seamus followed close behind, hurriedly. His blood was pumping as he ran. The contents in his folder were being ruffled and he could feel a sudden rush of heat in his chest, slightly sogging his shirt's fabric. But none of that mattered right now.

The moment he entered the building's threshold, he was greeted by a lobby filled with Rainbow operatives, US Army personnel, and a few other people in different attire, huddled around a large TV screen mounted on the wall. They gasped and held their breath, while others brought a hand on their mouths. Everyone was wide-eyed, focused at the scene they're watching. The telly was tuned in on a news channel, with purportedly live, overhead images of a school campus of sorts. The broadcast was a bit blurry, but one can see puffs of yellowish smoke lingering on the ground. Seamus took a closer look at the screen and found a few words that caused the hairs on the back of his neck to rise.

Bartlett University, MA.

Terrorist Attack.

On-going.

A male voice, presumably the news anchor, narrated the blurry images. He was stuttering his lines. That is not a good sign.

 _"...okay right now, on your screen... this... t-this is aerial footage from our news chopper at the scene...where... W-We can see smoke and sporadic gunfire coming from the tree line, and the nearby buildings, and... this is... There seems to be b-bodies... on the streets, on the ground... Oh my God..."_

Many in the room continued to watch the horror as it unfolded. But those from Rainbow, those with the black uniforms and the white patches, reverted to their professional faces. Neutral and silent. Their eyes were clearly in shock, but they nonetheless turned to look at the tall, bald man behind them, acknowledging his presence. He is their leader. He gives the orders.

At first, Seamus didn't know how to react. He was the center of attention again, much like in the briefing room a few minutes earlier. But he wasn't worried this time. Instead, his brain switched to a different gear. Combat procedures, mission protocols, and team assignments vied for space in his mind. He sorted them accordingly, as he recalled Rainbow's operational playbook. The day just reared its ugly head. There's probably no time to tell the boys at England about what's happening. Let alone to make one last call to his wife before he sets off.

Thankfully, he knew what to do next.

"Everyone! Head to the armory! NOW!", he ordered.

They responded with great haste, moving with a sense of purpose as they vacated the lobby and proceeded to their designated staging area. No more laughs and jokes. Everyone knew the score; Seamus, more so. He's not the taskmaster, at least this time.

A leader's job never ends. Now, it's about to be put to the test.

* * *

 **Author's Notes/Comments** : So there you have it folks; only one chapter left! Sledge, I believe, is one of Rainbow's team leaders (his bio implies this) and I hope I did a good job exploring this aspect of his character. I also pictured him to be a married man, like I did with Thatcher, so I guess there goes any ideas of shipping him with other people (lol). The next chapter is going to be short, and will be kind of... different from the rest of this series. Until then, Merry Christmas! :)


	15. Chapter 15 - Rainbow Six (FINAL)

**.**

* * *

 **"Rainbow Six"**

* * *

The entire office floor was abuzz with shuffling feet and panicking voices. There was no time to waste. Every second that went by meant another innocent life was cut down, hundreds of miles away.

"Get me in touch with the NSA.", Six ordered her male aide as they strode. "They better have a damn good reason why these bastards slipped under our noses!"

"We're trying ma'am, but their phones are ringing off the hook."

The dark-skinned woman cursed under her breath. She was just in a meeting with the Joint Chiefs a few minutes ago. Now, she is scrambling to respond to a catastrophe she should've seen coming. The attacks overseas, the weapons smugglings, the escalation. Her little Program, not even a year old, was called in from Europe precisely to prevent these things from reaching American soil. Now, her worst fears came true: it finally happened. On _her_ watch.

Why Bartlett University? Was it to send a message? These psychopaths must be incredibly confident or callous, most likely both, to think they can get away with attacking a prestigious center for learning. A soft target for sure, right at the heart of the Commonwealth. But the place is also surrounded by hundreds of state and local law enforcement units, not to mention the JSOC soldiers temporarily stationed at Hanscom Air Force Base in Bedford. And one half of Rainbow is just an hour-long helicopter flight away. It's a suicidal attack, by all accounts. Regardless, it's imperative that she moves now, rather than ponder about these things.

"What about our team in Bragg?"

"They're suiting up as we speak.", the young assistant responded again. "Hereford is also mobilizing- Baker said his boys can start flying to Logan International within the hour."

Six noted his report. Her face was strewn with an icy calmness that contrasts the anxiety and dread from the people around her. She can't blame them though. If things were different, if she didn't accept that job at the Pentagon, the same job that led her here, her feelings would probably mirror theirs. The knowledge that lives will be either saved or lost by what they do next is never easy to accept. But she has seen far too many horrors in her time to let such soft sentiments prevail. Let alone self-doubt.

She also knows that seeing Rainbow's Deputy Director lose her cool is the last thing her subordinates needed. So, she has no choice but to play the actor, create an aura of force and control like the eye of a storm. She did just that when she opened the door to her office, entering the room with a firm sense of authority. She was immediately greeted by a bespectacled secretary, rising from her seat.

"Ma'am, Homeland Security just called.", the young woman reported. "Director Treadway wants to talk to you, ASAP."

"He'll hear from me later.", Six replied. "Right now, I need to coordinate my resources."

The secretary nodded back.

"Here's the latest sitrep from the DHS. It was faxed to us ten minutes ago..."

Six grabbed the document from her hand, immediately sifting through it as she proceeded to her desk. She quickly went to work- each tidbit of information, no matter how small, was quickly, but carefully analyzed. She needed all the facts to get a better idea on the on-going carnage at Bartlett. And the words painted a gruesome scene in her head. Military-grade firearms, an unknown chemical agent, casualties estimated to be in the hundreds. No doubt these were the same weapons smuggled from the Port of Boston last night. It was all the more reason for her to send Team Rainbow in full force.

Nothing but cold logic and protocol guided her next thoughts. 'Terrorists' and 'civilians' became numerical variables that needed sorting. What is the best course of action that will diminish the former and save the latter? And how many of her own is she willing to gamble, just to achieve that goal? She looked at the entire thing like a mathematical problem. As heartless as it sounds, adopting this state of mind is the most expedient way to avoid making rash decisions. She'll never repeat her past mistakes.

Briefly, the Director became a different person.

"Ma'am?", the secretary called her attention. "I have Cowden and Baker on comms..."

With her cellphone on her ear, the young woman motioned to the large, wall-mounted monitor. Six nodded back and rested her hands on the table, clasping them.

"Patch me through...", she ordered.

With a flick of the remote, the black screen sprang to life. It produced two images separated by a vertical bar. On the left was Seamus Cowden, clad in a rugged military hazmat suit with tactical gear, sans the mask, as did the rest of his team at Fort Bragg, scurrying in the background. On the right was Mike Baker, donning regular black-colored arms and armor, as his colleagues in England hoisted bags over the shoulders, ready to board a shuttle to a pre-arranged emergency flight to the US. Both of them looked back at the monitor with serious faces and earnest anticipation, eagerly awaiting their next orders.

"Seamus. Mike."

"Ma'am…", the Scottish man answered.

"Go ahead ma'am, we read ya.", her old friend replied.

Slowly, more than a dozen faces stared back at her as well. More than a dozen men and women from diverse backgrounds and four different continents. Former special forces soldiers, police officers, intelligence agents, all serving under the Program. The best and brightest the world had to offer. It felt a bit surreal for the Deputy Director to see them all gathered as one, only separated by thousands of miles. To most of these operators, their last meeting with Rainbow Six was months ago, when she interviewed them for this job.

It was at this moment when the gravity of the situation dawned on the older woman. Rainbow has _never_ been mobilized at this scale. Mike and his little band of professionals performed admirably in Hamburg, Abidjan, and London, but those incidents are 'minor' compared to the bloodbath currently underway. And this afternoon, they'll be sent on a mission with very little intel, with almost no back-up, and certainly with no guarantee of a successful, clean op. They'll only have their skills, wits, and weapons to protect them. Perhaps even a dose of luck.

The pressure is on.

"Ladies and gentlemen…", Six began her speech. "...We have an active situation... The nature of this threat will require a full strike team..."

For a second, she glanced at her aide. The man nodded back with a quaint smile; he already prepared a full briefing for these opeartors. There was no need for her to get into specifics.

"...One of our most notable institutions of learning is under siege…", she continued. "We know that all first responders have gone silent. And we confirm numerous casualties due to the release of an unidentified bio-chemical weapon..."

Seamus and Mike maintained their stern poker faces. But Six can tell that her last sentence gave them pause. Neither of them expected to encounter such level of horror again. They've seen firsthand what a single canister of Compound Z can do to the human body. They've seen nerve gas used by fanatics on innocent people. And now these terrible weapons have found their way, much, _much_ closer to home.

"...This is more than just an attack on our soil. This is an attack on our future..."

The woman looked to the left side of her screen.

"Seamus, you and your team are to be inserted directly into the hot zone… against an unknown number of enemy combatants. We will have decontamination crews on standby… Your orders are to eliminate the threat and rescue any survivors you may find…"

"Roger that.", he replied.

She has a lot of faith on this man, especially since Mike himself vouched for his competence. But she hoped to God that she didn't just send him or any one else under his command to their deaths. Considering what they're up against, it will be a damn miracle if Rainbow comes out of this one unscathed. Then again, she had the same fears when they first deployed, less than half a year ago.

"Mike...", the Director turned to her right. "...Assemble your team at Brize Norton. Maintain minimum operational readiness. We'll call you when we need you."

"Understood."

In the event things go to hell, Six will have to rely on the Army Special Forces and National Guard to resolve the crisis. After all, it will take Mike and his team at least eight hours to fly stateside. Part of her wanted to question if dividing Rainbow's manpower was the smartest choice. But, what if Bartlett was just a diversion for a simultaneous attack somewhere on Europe? Paranoid thinking for sure, but time and experience have taught Rainbow's Deputy Director to always trust her gut.

And right now, it's telling her that this is only a taste of things to come. Regardless of how this day will end, _everything_ is about to change. There will be a lot of fingers to be pointed, policies to be reviewed, people to be mourned over and buried. And Rainbow, she assumes, will be at the forefront of it all. Worse, the time is probably nigh for the Program to finally step out of the shadows. She sacrificed so much to keep this taskforce a secret...

"This is why Rainbow was formed. This is what you _all_ have trained for...", she went on.

...But these thoughts are for tomorrow.

"...Your time is now."

The two commanders nodded back and closed their respective channels.

One image was left open on her screen- that of Seamus. He activated his helmet camera after the speech, giving the older woman a clear view of his next actions. From his perspective, the team at Fort Bragg are making their way to the tarmac at Pope Field, all kitted up and weapons slung on their backs, and about to board the Blackhawks that her government so graciously leased to them. The team is wearing Level 4 MOPP gear, so it's hard to tell who's who, given the bulkiness of the suits. But Six remembers all of their names by heart. It's the least she can do.

Cowden. Campbell. Trace. Pichon. Touré. Côté. Tsang. Castellano. Weiss. Streicher. Kessikbayev. Senaviev. Basuda. Imagawa. Enatsu.

"Godspeed, everyone.", she whispered to herself.

A moment after, the aide brought out his cellphone to answer a call. A few words were exchanged before he looked at his boss. It's clear that he had another urgent message to deliver. There's no point stalling this one.

"Ma'am? I have Director Treadway on group call. NSA and CIA are also on the line..."

Six took a deep breath. She knows there's no going back after this.

Mission elapsed time was zero minutes and thirty seconds.

...

 **TO BE CONTINUED**

* * *

 **Author's Notes/Comments:** I decided to end this series with Rainbow Six's point of view of the "Article 5" situation. Might be an odd choice, but I wanted to explore her character a bit, given how very little screen time she had. I opted not to give her a name, out of respect to the game's 'lore', and I also incorporated an edited version of her Article 5 opening speech. Rest assured I won't leave things hanging here; Article 5 will be the first chapter of my next series: "Freedom Day" (my profile has the details, plus a list of future stories).

Again, thank y'all for supporting Behind the Mask. Happy 2017!


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